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THE POEMS ANdT)RAMAS 



LORD BYRON 



REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS. 



Witl^ Explanatory Notes, Etc. 



ILLUSTRATED. 



CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 

BEDFORD, CLARKE & CO. 

1884. 



o 




PRINTED AND BOUND BY 

D O N O H U E & H E N N E B E K R Y, 

CHICAGO. 






PUBLISHER'S PREFACE. 



In offering a new edition of the works of an accepted standard and classic like 
Byron, any prefatory remarks will probably seem superfluous; but the publisher 
feels justified in inviting attention briefly to a few points in which the present 
" Arundel Edition " possesses a very marked and decided superiority over any 
other that has at any time been issued in a similarly compact and convenient shape. 

1. It is Complete. — The importance of this claim will be conceded when we 
mention the fact, which can be proved by any reader for himself, that scarcely any 
of the so called '* complete editions " (even among those designed for scholars) are 
really complete and unabridged. One edition, professing to be complete, actually 
omits Childe Harold and Don Juan ; but while this is an extreme (and we hope 
solitary) case, it may be affirmed without qualification that all the cheaper editions 
are incomplete, only differing from each other in respect to the particular pieces 
omitted. For example, the well known Nimmo (or Edinburgh) edition omits more 
than half the "Occasional Pieces" (63 out of 123); it omits The Isla7id, The 
Prophecy of Da7ite and Francesca of Rimini j and it omits from the dramas (of 
which there are only eight in all), Sardanapalus^ The Two Foscari, Werner and 
The Deformed Transforined — two, at least, being among the best. The present 
edition contains every piece that has ever been included in the best standard 
editions. 

2. Its Text is Pure. — Not only are entire poems omitted from most of the 
editions (as pointed out above), but even of these supposed to be included the text 
is frequently altered, or rather mutilated, to suit the tastes of what Charles Reade 
happily calls the " prurient prudes." The publisher feels that to issue a mutilated 
version of ai established classic, is to offer an insult to both author and reader ; 
and particular care has been taken to have the text of the present edition corre- 
spond with what Byron actually wrote and published. 



iv PUBLISHER'S PREFACE. 

3. It is fully Equipped 7inth Noles. — Most of the one volume editions omit the 
notes entirely, and very few indeed reprint them in their original form and fulness. 
Yet many of the poems are absolutely unintelligible without the notes, and nearly all 
of them profit greatly by the aid which is thus afforded in elucidating obscure, diffi- 
cult or interesting points. Moreover, Byron's prose is only less picturesque and 
vivid than his poetry ; and he himself declared to Moore that some of the best work 
he ever did was put into the notes to his several poems. The whole of these Origi- 
nal Notes appear in the present edition, and others have been added by the editor 
where they seemed necessary' to a full understanding of the text. 

4. Its Illustratio7is are Appropriate. — The most cursory examination of the 
ordinar}' editions of Byron will suffice to convince the reader of the grotesque inap- 
propriateness of the illustrations. There is a coldness about them which, contrasted 
with the warm imagery, the picturesque descriptions, and the glowing language of 
the text, is almost repulsive. The scene of most of Byron's poems is laid in the 
East, where human passions have free play, and where the aspects of nature and the 
Habits of life correspond to the warm imagination and swift circling blood. For the 

,< time an attempt is made in a popular edition of Byron to reproduce pictorially 
these fierce passions, this rich imagery, these flowing draperies and graceful atti- 
tudes ; and to do so most effectively we have employed the graphic pencils of Sir 
John Gilbert, R. A., Birket Foster, Henry Dalziel, Kenny Meadows, Hablot K. 
Browne and W. J. Linton. 

5. Its Typography is Good, — This is almost too technical a point to insist upon, 
but it is worth while for the reader to observe, that while most of the current editions 
are printed from old, blurred and battered plates, the present is from new, clear cut 
type, large enough to ^e read with ease and pleasure. 




LORD BYRON'S LIFE AND LITERARY LABORS. 



The portrait of George Noel Gordon Byron, the most remarkable figure in the literature of thi; ;entury, is 
still too often made up on the principle of putting in all the shadows and leaving out all the lights. . Even the 
records and traditions of his ancestry are partially selected in this way. It is true, no doubt, that Byron's imme- 
diate ancestors were far from being quiet, respectable people. His father. Captain Byron, was a profligate officer, 
whose first wife was a divorced lady with whom he had eloped to France, who married a second time only to 
find the means for paying his debts, and who left his wife as soon as her fortune was exhausted. His mother, 
Catherine Gordon, heiress of Gight in Aberdeenshire, was a fitful and passionate woman, who knew no stable 
halting place between the extremes of indulgent fondness and vindictive disfavor. His grand-uncle, whom he 
'•.ucceeded in the title, had killed his neighbor and relative, Mr. Chaworth, in a drunken brawl, had been tried 
before the House of Lords on the charge of murder and acquitted, but had been so wrought upon by remorse 
and the sense of public opprobrium, that he shut himself up at Newstead, let the place go to ruin, and acquired 
such a bad repute by his solitary excesses that he was known as the " wicked Lord Byron." In other' parts of 
the family line the nobler elements are seen running clear and pure. The poet's grandfather. Admiral Byron, 
" Foul Weather Jack," who had as little rest on sea as the poet on the land, had the virtues without the vices of 
his race. Farther down the family tree we find the Byrons distinguishing themselves in the field. Seven 
brothers fought in the battle of Edgehill, but none of the family would seem to have been stirred by the poetic 
impulse in the brightest period of English song. 

The poverty into which Byron was born had much to do in determining his future career. If he had been 
born in affluence, we may be certain that, with his impressionable disposition, he would never have been the poet 
of the Revolution — the most powerful exponent of the modern spirit. . By the time of his birth (at Holies street, 
London, January 22, 1788) his father had "squandered the lands o' Gight awa'," and his mother was on her way 
back from the Continent with a small remnant of her wrecked fortune. Mrs. Byron took up her residence at 
Aberdeen ; and her "lame brat," as she called him in her fits, was sent for a year to a private school at 5s. a 
quarter, and afterwards to the grammar school of the town. Many little stories are told of the boy's affectionate 
gratitude and venturesome chivalry, as well of his exacting and passionate temper. The sisters Gray, who were 
his successive nurses, found him tractable enough under kind treatment. His mother, whose notion of discipline 
consisted in hurling things at him when he was disobedient, had no authority over him ; he met her violence 
sometimes with sullen resistance, sometimes with defiant mockery ; and once, he tells us, they had to wrench 
from him a knife which he was raising to A.s breast. At school he passed from the first to the fourth class, bu' 
with all his ambition he was too self-willed to take kindly to prescribed tasks, too emotional for dry intellectua 
work ; and he probably learned more from Mary Gray, who taught hiiu the Psalms and the Bible, than he did 
from his schoolmaster. Before he left Aberdeen, which he did on the death of his grand-uncle, and his accessior 
to the peerage in May, 1798, he gave a remarkable proof of the precocious intensity of his affections by falling 
in love with his cousin Mary Duff. So strong a hold did this passion take of him, that six years afterwards I* 
nearly went into convulsions on hearing of her marriage. 

Soon after, Byron's mother, who had frequently taken advice for the cure of his lame foot, went with him tu 
Nottingham, and placed him under the cure of an empiric, who tortured him to no purpose. The torture W 
renewed, under the advice of a London physician, at Dr. Glennie's school at Dulwich, at which he was entert 
in the summer of 1799 ' ^^^ ^^ ^^t the foot, as he wrote his Scotch nurse, was so far restored that he was able 
put on a common boot. He was two years with Dr. Glennie, and, though he made but little progress in h 
classical studies, he had the run of his master's library, and added greatly to his general information. Before hv 
left for Harrow he had contracted another passion for his cousin Margaret Parker, so intense that he could not 
eat or sleep when he was looking forward to meeting her. He went to Harrow in 1801, "a wild northern colt," 



vi LORD BYRON'S LIFE 

as the head-master said of him, very much behind his age in Latin and Greek. This deficiency he never quite 
overcame. Many anecdotes are' told of the warmth of his friendships at Harrow, and his chivalry in defending 
his juniors. In the vacation of 1S03 he again fell in love — this time more seriously — with Miss Cha worth, whose 
grandfather the "wicked Lord Byron" had killed. In the melancholy moods of his after life her rejection of 
him was often a subject of passionate regret. 

Byron's residence at Cambridge (Trinity College, 1805 to 1808, with interval of a year) added little to his 
knowledge of academical learning. The arts in which he qualified himself to graduate were swimming, riding, 
fencing, boxing, drinking, gaming, and the other occupations of idle undergraduates. When he went up to Cam- 
bridge he was wretched, he teHs us, partly from leaving Harrow, chiefly,-it may be presumed, from the want 
of money. His friend, Scrope Davies, lent him large sums, and he lived with a certain degree of reckless 
^happiness. 

Much more important than his residence in Cambridge, as bearing on his mental development, was hii year's 
residence at Southwell. From that happy period, which saw the serious dawn of his genius, M. Taine has picked 
out only the unhappy violent quarrel with his mother, which was the cause of its termination. His indmacy 
with the Pigotts, and the expansion of his poetic genius under their genial encouragement, are much more 
worthy of notice than this cidmination of miserable bickerings, which he was now strong enough to laugh at when 
the domestic storm was over. He had scribbled many verses at Harrow, but had been too shy to show them to 
his roistering friends ; and now, finding for the first time an admiring audience, he put forth his powers in earnest, 
as was only possible to him when under the influence of love or defiance. The result came before the public in the 
Hours 0/ Idleness, published by Ridge, of Newark, in March 1807. The poems in that collection have some- 
thing of the insipidity of the circumstances that gave them birth, but the fact of publicadon bound him to his 
vocation to a degree of which he was not at all aware. Hitherto his ambition had pointed toward politics as his 
natural fiel<4, and he said as much in the somewhat disdainful preface to his poems. Putting his ambition into 
verse, he characteristically compared himself to a slumbering volcano, and longed to burst on the world as a 
Fox or a Chatham. 'Bui \h.Q Hours of Idleness decided his career for him. When he went back to Trinity 
College he could not help eagerly watching their effect. Again and again he wrote to the friendly Miss Pigott 
to hear how they were succeeding. He was prepared for defeat, he said, and he promised to take vengeance on 
adverse cridcs. He was made a new man by the publication ; he had tasted public applause and longed for 
nxore of it. It was then that he carefully examined himself and took stock of his acquirements in the very 
remarkable document dated November 30, 1807, to which we are indebted for our knowledge of the extent of 
his studies. In the midst of his rollicking set at Cambridge he was secretly girding up his loins and collecting his 
powers to make a grand struggle for fame. Perhaps no poet was ever drawn out so directly by the thirst for 
public honor. He launched himself bodily before the world, almost ravenous for sympathy and homage. 

It is generally said that but for the savage attack of the Edinburgh Revieium the spring of 1808 Byron 
might never have returned to poetry. But the fact is that the review did not appear till a year after the publi- 
cation of Hours 0/ Idleness, and, in the interval, Byron, for all his farewell to poetry, was " scribbling," as he 
called it, more furiously than ever. " I have written," he wrote to Miss Pigott, six months before the Edinburgh 
attack, " 214 pages of a novel ; one poem of 380 lines to be published (without my name) in a few weeks with 
notes ; 560 lines of Bos-zuorth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller 
pieces. The poem to be published is a satire." This satire was the poem which he afterwards converted into a 
reply to the Edinburgh Revieiv. He anticipated censure and forearmed himself — always as eager to defy re- 
proof as he was to win applause. Apparently he put off publishing his satire till all his critics had had their say, 
and he should know exactly where to hit. When the attack came it wounded him bitterly ; a friend who 
called on him at the time thought from the fierce light in his eye that he had received a challenge. He was in 
no hurrj', however, to pu'olish ; he worked at leisure, resting confident in the consciousness of his powers, and 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers did not make its appearance till the spring of 1809. When it did appear 
the authorship was soon discovered, and it was the talk of the town. To us who look back upon it dispassionately, 
and compare its somewhat heavy and mechanical couplets with the exquisite lightness and telling point of iu% 
antitype the Dunciad, the satire appears to possess no great force ; but the personalities told at a time when there 
was a vague unrest in the literary world at the outspoken severity and sometimes truculent malice of the 
Scotch review, and the injured poet had his revenge in a general acknowledgment that the objects of his wrath 
deserved castigation, and tlu.t the hash was well laid on. 

Soon after the imblif.ation of his satire, Byron, in June, 1809, left for his travels on the Continent ; and one 
would have expected that the youii^ loni, with the wreath of triumph still fresh on his head after his first literary 
battle, would have gone on his journey with «;atisfaction and with hopeful curiosity. He sailed in deep dejection, 
with the bitterness of a man who feels himself friendless and solitary, and he returned after two years' wander- 



AND LITERARY LABORS. vii 

ing in Spain, Albania, Greece, Turkey and Asia Minor, sadder than before. Why was this ? Those who 
identify him with his own Childe Harold are ready with the answer that he had lived a life of dissolute pleasure, 
and was already at the age of twenty-one, experiencing the pains of satiety and exhaustion. But this is not 
borne out by such scanty light as he and his friends have thrown upon his life at this period. He himself always 
protected, both in public and in private, against being identified with Childe Harold. Childe Harold's manor 
was an old monastic residence ; he left his country in bitter sadness ; in the original MS. his name was Childe 
Burun ; he left behind him a mother and a sister ; and he passed through the scenes of Byron's travels. But 
there the resemblance, which is really confined, as the author alleged, to local details, ends. There is no reason 
to disbelieve the author's affirmation that Childe Harold was a purely fictitious character " introduced for the sake 
of giving ^some connection to the piece." To make him what he intended — " a modern Timon, perhaps a 
poetical Zeluco " — the poet drew, no doubt, upon his own gloomier moods ; he felt occasionally as he makes 
Harold feel habitually, but the process was much more dramatic than the world in spite of his protests took for 
granted. Byron, with all his bitter moods of forlorn despondency, was too susceptible a spirit to stalk " in joyless 
reverie " through the south of Europe, as his letters home testify. And we know that his fiction of the Baccha- 
nalian feasts in the monastery, with " Paphian girls " and " flatterers and parasites," is not at all like what 
actually occurred at Newstead Abbey. There were no laughing dames there except the domestics, and the 
flatterers and parasites were his bosom friends whom he loved with a romantic ardor. They held " high jmks " 
there as any young men might have done, masqueraded about in monkish habits to be in whimsical conformity 
with the place, practiced pistol shooting in the old hall, had a wolf and a bear chained at the entrance, had the 
garden dug up in search of concealed treasure, found a skull there, had it made into a cup, and passed the cup 
round after dinner with the conceit that their mouths did it less harm than the worms, and that when its wit had 
ceased to sparkle, it had better be filled with Burgundy to make other wits sparkle than lie rotting in the earth. 
Byron himself was too poor, as Moore has remarked, to keep a harem, had such been his wish. He is known to 
have had a romantic passion for a girl who used to travel with him in England in boy's clothes ; but whoever 
thinks he was satiated with the poor creature's devotion to him, should read the concluding stanzas of the second 
canto of Childe Harold, where the poet speaks in his own person and laments her death in language utterly out 
of keeping with the dark, unfeeling mood of his " Modern Timon." One can then understand why he should 
have said he would not for worlds be a man like his hero. There is really very little of the personage Childe 
Harold in the poem ; the poet simply had him by his side as a connecting link while he described the scenes 
through which he passed. In the last two cantos indeed, Byron, seeing that the public had identified him with 
Childe Harold, and then more defiant of public opinion, hardly cared to keep up the separation between his own 
character and the pilgrim's ; and in the last canto he avowedly makes them coalesce. 

To look for the causes of moodiness and melancholy in material circumstances is a very foolish quest, but 
we may.be certain that insufficiency of this world's money and the daily vexations and insults to which his rank 
was thereby exposed, had much more to do with Byron's youthful gloom than satiety of this world's pleasures. 
His embarrassed finances, and the impossibility of securing the respect due to his title, formed a constant source 
of annoyance, and put his whole system into a morbid condition, in which every little slight and repulse festered 
and rankled with exaggerated virulence. From the daily humiliations and impertinences to which his false position 
subjected him, aggravated by his jealous and suspicious irritability, he may have turned sometimes to Childe 
Harold's consolations — " the harlot and the bowl," but his nature prompted him rather to forget his vexations in 
purer and worthier objects. Unfortunately for him, such impetuous and passionate aflfections as his could rarely 
find the response for which he craved. In those few cases where devotion was repaid by adoration, the warmth 
of his gratitude was unbounded ; he loaded poor Thyrza's memory with caresses, careless of what the world 
might say, remembering only that the poor girl clung to him with unselfish love. 

Nothing ever racked him with sharper anguish than the death of her whom he mourned under the name of 
Thyrza. To know the bitterness of his struggle with this sorrow we have only to look at what he wrote on the 
day that the news reached him (October ii, 1811). Some of his wildest and most fiercely misanthropical verse, 
as well as some of his sweetest and saddest, belongs to that saddest of dates on his calendar. It is time that 
something were done to trace this attachment, which has been strangely overlooked by the essayists and 
biographers. It furnishes an important clue to Byron's characters, and is, indeed, of hardly less importance than 
his later attachment to the Countess Guiccioli. Mr. John Morley, in an essay which ought to be read by every- 
body who wishes to form an idea of Byron's poetry as a revolutionary force in itself, remarks upon the respect 
which Byron, with all his raillery of the married state in modern society, still shows for the domestic idea. It is 
agamstthe artificial union, the marriage of convenience, that his scorn is directed. However cynically or mourn- 
fully he laments its mfrequence he always upholds singleness of attachment as an ideal, and points with laughter 
or with tears at the way m which it is cut short where it does exist. Who Thyrza was can probably never be 



viii LORD BYRON'S LIFE 

known, but, in trying to convey the impression that she was purely imaginary, probably with the intention of 
shielding his friend's memory by declaring him innocent of a relationship unsanctioned by society, Moore really 
did Byron an injustice. The poor girl, whoever she was, and however much she was deified after her death by 
his imagination, would really seem to have been his grand passion. Her " dear sacred name " his hand, he says 
years afterwards, would have trembled to write ; he " wished it forever unrevealed." When he was ques- 
tioned by the Countess Guiccioli, he was deeply agitated and begged her never to recur to the subject. In his 
yournal, with Thyrza in his memory, we find him writing with contempt of the amours of some of his acquaint- 
Ances, and scoffing at the idea of their applying the name of love to favors that, more or less directly, could be 
purchased. He has recorded the fact that when he drew the portrait of Zuleika his whole soul was full of her 
memory, and her image was again before him when he described the relationship between Zara and the 
disguised Gulnare. Indeed, she is the presiding genius of his Eastern Tales. Conrad, with all his conscious 
villany, had one redeeming passion — " love unchangeable, unchanged." The Giaour, too, loved but one ; — he 
learnt that lesson from the birds, and despised " the fool still prone to range," and "envied not his varied joys." 
All these portraitures of single-hearted devotion are tributes to the memory of Thyrza, the " more than friend," 
commemorated in the second canto of Childe Harold. Medora's song in the Corsair, " Deep in my soul that 
tender secret dwells," though not faultless as a lyric, is one of his most beautiful expressions of this mournful 
sentiment. There seems some reason for believing that the mysterious object of Manfred's love and remorse is 
another of the forms that she took in his imagination. 

For some time after his return to England, Byron lived at Newst«ad very unhappily. He wrote that he 
was growing nervous, really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. He could not arrange his 
thoughts — he feared his brain was giving way and that it would end in madness — and he felt occasionally a 
strange tendency to mirth. At other times he thought more soberly of parliament as a diversion. He went to 
London, not to plunge into a lawless and pitiless course of crime, but to enter upon a political career. He had 
spoken two or three times in the House of Lords, ineffectively however, when the publication of Childe Harold 
put an end to his parliamentary ambitions, " When Childe Harold was published," he says, " nobody thought 
of my prose afterwards, nor indeed did I." 

It has often been asked what was the cause of the instantaneous and wide spread popularity of Childe 
Harold, which Byron so well expressed in the saying " I awoke one morning and found myself famous." Chief 
among the secondary causes was the warm sympathy between the poet and his readers, the direct interest of 
his theme for the time. In the spring of 1812 England was in the very crisis of a struggle for existence. It was 
just before Napoleon set out for Moscow. An English army was standing on its defensive in Portugal, with diffi- 
culty holding its own. The nation was trembling for its safety. The dreaded Bonaparte's next movement was 
uncertain. Rumor was busy with alarms and it was feared that their own shores would be invaded. The heart 
of England was beating high with patriotic resolution, and all through the country men were arming and 
drilling for self defence. 

What were the leading English poets doing in the midst of all this ? Scott, the most popular of the tuneful 
brotherhood, was celebrating the exploits of William of Deloraine and Marmion. Coleridge's Chrisiabel was lying 
in manuscript, and his poetic power was in a state of suspended animation, Southey was floundering in the dim 
sea of Hindu mythology. Rogers was content with his Pleasures of Memory. Wordsworth took a meditative 
interest in public affairs, but his poems, though fine as compositions, lacked the fire and sinew, the ardent direct- 
-^e^ of popular verse. In the earlier stages of the war Campbell had electrified the eountry with his heart stirring 
^'jgs ; but in 1812 he had retired from the post of Tyrtaeus to become the poet of Gertrude 0/ Wyojuing. 
Moore confined himself to political squibs and wanton little lays for the boudoir. No wonder that when at last 
a poet did appear whose artistic creations were throbbing with the life of his own age, who felt in what century 
he was living, he should quickly mount to the topmost pinnacle of fame. There was not a parish in Great 
Britain in which there was not some household that had a direct personal interest in the scenes of the pilgrim's 
travels — "some friend, some brother there." Nor was the effect confined to England. Byron spoke on 
a theme that commanded all Europe as his audience, and the spell by which he bound them was the 
stronger that, while expressing their most intense feelings, he lifted them with the irresistible power of his song 
above the passing anxieties of the moment. Loose and rambling as Childe Harold is, it yet had for the time an 
unconscious art. It entered the absorbing tumult of a hot and feverish struggle and opened a way in the dark 
clouds gathering over the combatants through which they could see the blue vault and the shining stars. If the 
young poet had only thrown himself forward to ridicule the vanity of their struggles he would certainly have 
been spurned aside in the heat of the fight with anger and contempt ; but his sympathy with the Spanish peasant, 
his worship of the saenic wonders of the country, his admiration for the heroism of the women, his ardent battle 
try of freedom, showed that the pulse of hepoism — heroism conscious of the worst that could happen and 



AND LITERARY LABORS, ix 

undismayed by the prospect — beat beneath the garb of the cynic. It may have been by unconscious art, but it 
was not without dramatic propriety that Byron turned in his second canto from the battlefields of Spain 

" With blf>od-red tresses deepening in the sun. 
And death shot glowing in his fiery hands — " 

to " August Athena," " ancient of days,** scad xhe" vanished hero's lofty mound." In that terrible time of 
change, when every state in Europe was shaken to its foundation, there was a profound meaning in placing before 
men's eyes he departed greatness of Greece ; and the mournful scepticism of Childe Harold was not resented 
at a time when it lay at the root of every heart to ask : Is there a God in heaven to see such desolation, and withhold 
his hand ? 

During the next four years Byron lived in London, but the fashionable society in which he mixed at this 
period and the flattery lavished on him do not appear to have had a favorable effect upon his genius. He 
produced in rapid succession the Giaour (May 1813), The Bride 0/ Abydos (December 1813), Corsair, 
(January 1814), Lara (August 1814), Siege of Corinth (January 1816), Parisina (February 1816). The best of 
these is the first, but they were received with an enthusiasm which rose higher and higher with each successive 
publication. 

In November, 1813, Byron proposed for the hand of Miss Milbanke, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, 
"an eligible party," he owned in a letter to Moore, though he "did not address her with these views." His 
suit was rejected, but she expressed a wish to correspond with him. In September, 1814, he made another pro- 
posal, which was accepted, and the marriage took place on January 2, 1815. On loth December a daughter, 
named Augusta Ida, was bom. On 15th January, 1816, Lady Byron left her husband's house in London on a 
visit to her father at Kirby Mallory. On the way she wrote an affectionate letter to Byron, beginning " Dear 
Duck," and signed " Your Pippin." A few days after he heard from her father that she had resolved never to 
retiu-n to him, and this intelligence was soon confirmed by a letter from herself. In tke course of next month a 
formal deed of separation was drawn up and signed. This is Moore's account of the affair. Lady Byron's 
account, published on the appearance of Moore's Life, differs chiefly as regards the part taken by her parents 
in bringing about the separation. Byron suspected her mother's influence. Lady Byron took the whole 
responsibility on herself. Before she left town she thought Byron mad and consulted Dr. Baiilie. Dr. Baillie 
persuaded her that this was an illusion. She then told her parents that she desired a separation. The 
grounds upon which she desired this were submitted by her mother to Dr. Lushington, who wrote that they 
justified a separation, but advised a reconciliation. Then Lady Byron had an interview with Dr. Lushington and 
communicated certain facts, after which he declared a reconciliation impossible. A celebrated authoress, Mrs. 
Harriet Beecher Stowe, who was only slightly acquainted with Lady Byron, has, as \& well known, made a 
definite statement on this subject implicating a member of Lord Byron's own family. Apart from notorious 
infidelity on his part, and ill treatment in other respects, it was whispered at the time that he had been guilty of 
incest with his half sister Augusta. It is enough, however, to say that this last statement is virtually contra- 
dicted by Lady Byron's own behavior, as she remained on intimate terms with the lady referred to after separa- 
tion from her husband. Mrs. Leigh's whole life and character render the supposition of her guilt improbable. 

The real cause of the separation between Byron and his wife must always remain more or less a matter of 
debate, no absolute proof being possible, and disputants reasoning on the presumptions according to tempera- 
ment and prepossession. Byron's own statement that the causes were too trivial ever to be found out probably 
comes nearest the truth. That their tempers were incompatible, that without treating her with deliberate 
cruelty he tried her forbearance in many ways, and behaved as no husband ought to do, that for her own happi- 
ness she had every reason to demand a separation will readily be believed. After her marriage a huge accumu- 
lation of debtors began to press their claims. No less than nine executions were put in force in his house in one 
year. Then to Byron a wife who could coldly ask him " when he meant to give up his bad habit of making 
verses," must have had a terrible power of annoyance. Her perfect self-control and imperturbable serenity 
her power of never forgetting an injury and taking revenge with angelic sweetness and apparent innocence of 
vindictive intention, must have been perfectly maddening to such a man. 

A great revulsion m popular feeling took place toward Byron upon the announcement of his separation 
from his wife. Just as four years before he became the popular idol in one day, in one day he became the object 
of universal execration. Lampooned in the newspapers, hissed in the theatres, he took leave of England in April, 
1816, never to return. His first place of residence was Diodati, a village in the neighborhood of Geneva. Here 
he met Shelley and his family, consisting of his infant son, Wollstonecraft Godwin, its yet unwedded mother, 
and Jane Clermont, a young woman, daughter of a widow whom Godwin had married after the death of Mary 



x LORD BYRON'S LIFE 

Wollstonecraft. B>Ton had never seen either of them before, but in barely nine months Miss Clermont became 
the mother of his daugiater Allegra, The child when 20 months old was sent to him at Venice, and he provided 
for her support. She died at the age of five years. 

Byron's expatriation from his native land was really a most fortunate step both for his happiness and his 
genius. Abroad, he consented to the sale of Ncwstead, and his income enabled him to live without being subject 
to the constant indignities which were a torture to him at home. There also he found the solitude which he had 
always desired. " Society," he wrote in a letter to Moore, " as now constituted, ^ fatal to all great original 
undertakings of every kind. " 

In October, 1S16, Byron left Switzerland, leaving behind his unborn child and its mother, and in November 
took up his abode in Venice, where he remained three years. It is stated he had hardly been located in hiii 
apartments ten days before he entered into a lioison with the young wife of the elderly Venetian landlord from 
whom he rented his rooms. His travels through Flanders past the field of Waterloo appear in the third canto c{ 
Childe Harold (May to July 1816) ; the idea of writing Man/red (begun in September 1816, finished February 
1817) occurred to him on the Jungfrau, where the scene is laid. In Venice he also wrote the fourth canto of 
Childe Harold (June 1817', Beppo (October 1817), Ode to Venice (July 1818), first canto of Don Juan (Sep- 
tember 1818,, Mazcppa (October 1818}, second canto of Don Juan (December 1818), third and fourth cantos 
finished November 1819. The bare mention of his literary work shows th*t the reports of the debauchery in 
which he lived at Venice, and from which he is said to have been rescued by the Countess Guiccioli, must be 
taken with a qualification. 

Teresa Guiccioli was the daughter ef Count Gamba, and some aaonths before, at th* age of sixteen, had 
become the third wife of Count Guiccioli, a wealthy nobleman of the Romagna, more than sixty years old. 
It would appear that the attachment between Byron and the countess was a case of love at first sight. It is 
extraordinary to read that on the old count removing his wife to Ravenna, whsre she became dangerously ill, 
it was thougkt that nothing could save her life but the presence of her lover and that Byron visited her at the 
joist solicitation of her fathw, brother, and husband. Here he remained two years. After the lapse of some time 
the Count Guiccioli became less pliable and demanded that Byron should be given up. The countess demurred, 
and thought it rather hard she should be the only woman in Romagna who might not have an amico. A formal 
separation between the count and his wife ensued in consequence of this dispute. In January, 1820, the countess 
occupied, under her father Count Gamba's presence and sanction, a suite mi rooms in th« same house with Byron 
at Ravenna ; and although the families were formally separate the union was not broken till Byron's departure 
for Greece. When two years later, in 182 1, the Gambas, in consequence of their connection with revolutionary 
movements, were ordered to quit Ravenna, Byron removed to Pisa and lived with them under the 
same roof as before. Leigh Hunt, who also was r«ceived into Byron's house with his wife and children, has 
given us a somewhat ill-natured but sufficiently faithful aecount of his life here, which was simply that of 
a busy domesticated literary man, with a taste for riding, swimming, and marksmanship. During Byron's resi- 
dence here Shelley was drowned in the Gulf of Spezzia. In September, 1822, the Gambas were ordered by the 
Tuscan Government to quit Pisa, and Byron removed with them to Genoa. His life at Genoa has been 
described with traces of airy malice, but with much vivacity and abundance of detail, by Lady Blessington. 

While he lived with the Countess Guiccioli Byron's literary activity was prodigious. The following is the 
list : — Translation of the first canto oi Morgante Maggiore, February 1820 ; the Prophecy of Dante, March 1820 ; 
translation oi Francesca de Rimini, March 1820 ; Marino Faliero, April to July 1820 ; fifth canto o{ Don Juan, 
October to November 1820 ; Sardanapalus, j2in\ia.Ty to May 182X ; The Blues, November 1820 ; Letters on 
Bowles, February and March 1821 ; The Two Foscari, June to July 1821 ; Cain,]\i\y to September 1821 ; 
Vision 0/ yudgjnent, September 1821 ; Heaven and Earth, October 1821 ; Werner ^ November 1821 to Janu- 
ary 1822 ; Deformed Transformed, begun November 1821, finished August 1822 ; Don Juan, sixth, seventh 
and eighth cantos, February 1822 ; ninth, tenth and deventh canfeos, August 1822 ; The Age of Bronze, January 
1823 ; The Island, February 1823 ; Don Juan, twelfth and thirteenth cantos, February 1823. 

This quiet industrious life, however, did not cure him of his constitutional melancholy and restlessnesf.. The 
curse of hLs nature was that he exhausted his pleasures too quickly. Much as he enjoyed the success of the 
works which flowed with such rapidity from his pen, he began to harp ©n what h« might have done. He became 
dissatisfied with past triumphs, and hungered for new distinction. In this spirit, toward the end of 1821, he com- 
menced those negotiations for the publication of a journal in England in conjunction with Shelley and Leigh Hunt, 
which ended in the abortive Liberal. The Vision of Judgment, the greatest of modern satires, appeared in the 
first number of the Liberal, in the .summer of 1822. According to Moore, the sign of an intention to take an 
active part in alliance with English Radicalism did more to make Byron unpopular in England than the most 
shocking of his poems. In the England of those days the wealthy and cultivated classes formed the great bulk q[ 



AND LITERARY LABORS,. 



XI 



readers, and they were Tories to a man. Fortunately for his popularity he was brought, throvigh his well known 
aspirations for popular liberty, into connection with the London Greek committee, of which he was appointed 
a member in 1823, He at once decided to take action, raised 50,000 crowns, bought an English brig of 120 tons, 
and sailed from Genoa with arms and ammunition in July. The high hopes with which he set out were soon 
broken down. The Greeks had no plans, and he was compelled to spend five months of inglorious delay at 
Cephalonia. Reaching Missolonghi in December, after a chase by Turkish cruisers, he found dissension among 
the Greek chiefs and insubordination among their followers. He was appointed commander-in-chief of an ex- 
pedition against Lepanto ; but before anything could be done he was seized with fever, and died on the 19th 
April, 1824. 

It is yet, perhaps, too soon to hazard a speculation as to the permanence of Byron's fame. That he holds a 
lower place in the opinion of the present generation of educated Englishmen than of his own is undeniable. This 
is probably due to the fact that poets now are tried by more strictly artistic standards ; verses are judged, pro- 
portions measured, rare and precious excellences appreciated with the jealous scrutiny and skilled recognition of 
professional workmen. Tried by such standards, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley must be pronounced Byron's 
superiors. But it was not on the artistic side that Byron's strength lay. It is his theme that commands attention, 
and the impetuous vehemence and stormy passion with which it is hurried on. By the accident of birth and 
circumstances, he was placed in opposition to the existing order of things, and his daring temper made him the 
exponent of the spirit of revolution. Abroad, from the appearance of Childe Harold, Byron's influence has been 
even greater than at home. It is said that he was the first Englishman who made English literature known 
throughout Europe. Even Lamartine, who deplored Byron as the incarnation of Satan, acknowledged his 
power, and tells us that he was afraid to read him in his youth lest he should be perverted in his beliefs. Byron 
is said to have largely influenced the revolutionary movement in Germany, and to have given a direct stimulus 
to the liberators of Italy. " Never," says IMacaulay, "had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence 
of scorn, misanthropy, and despair." On the Continent it may be said that his influence has increased rather than 
diminished, and only a short time ago a glowing tribute to his genius was written by Castelar, the literary leader 
of republicanism in Spain. 

In the United States, Byron will always occupy a high place as the poet of the passions, and it is said that 
after Shakespeare he is the most popular of the English poets. The least successful of Byron's productions, not- 
withstanding the admirable passages with which they abound, are his tragedies : the work that gives us the 
highest notion of his genius, power and versatility is his Don Juan. The Don is at times free and almost obscene, 
and the whole tendency of the poem may be considered immoral; but there are scattered throughout it the most 
exquisite pieces of writing and feeling — inimitable blendings of wit, humor, raillery, and pathos, and by far the 
finest verses Byron ever wrote. He may be said to have created this maimer ; for the Bernesco style of the 
Italians, to which it has been compared, is not like it. 




CONTENTS 



Hours of Idleness i 

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the 

Author 3 

ToE 3 

ToD 3 

Epitaph on a Friend 3 

A Fragment 4 

On Leaving Newstead Abbey 4 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun 

and an English Gentleman," with Answer. . 4 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying 5 

Translation from Catullus 5 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibul- 

lus 5 

Imitation of Tibullus 5 

Translation from Catullus 5 

Imitated from Catullus 5 

Translation from Horace 6 

From Anacreon 6 

From Anacreon 6 

From the Prometheus Vinctus of .^chylus. . . 6 

To Emma y 

ToM. S. G 7 

To Caroline ", - 

To Caroline 8 

To Caroline g 

Stanzas to a La(^, with the Poems of Camo- 

ens ^ 

The First Kiss of Love o 

Op a Change of Masters at a Great Public 

School Q 

To the Duke of Dorset o 

Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage 

of Miss Chaworth jo 

Granta: A Medley , jj 

On a Distant View of tlie Village and School of 

Harrow-on-the -Hill ,2 

ToM— :.:;:;;:; ,, 

To Woman 

To M. S. G ^* 13 

To Mary, en receiving her Picture 13 

To Lesbia 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady, who had 
been alarmed at the sound of a Bullet fired 

by the Author ^. 

Love's Last Adieu j , 

Damsetas -^ 



To Marion , 15 

To a Lady, who presented to the Author a 

Lock of Hair braided with his own 16 

Oscar of Alva : a Tale 16 

The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 19 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides 24 

Thoughts suggested by a College Examination 24 

To a beautiful Quaker 25 

The Cornelian 26 

An occasio.ial Prologue, delivered previous to 
t' .e Performance of The Wheel 0/ Fortune 

at a Private Theatre 26 

On the Death of Mr. Fox 26 

The Tear 27 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq. . 27 

To the Sighing Strephon 28 

To Eliza 28 

Lochin y Gair 28 

To Romance 29 

Answer to some Elegant Verses, sent by a 

! Friend to the Author 30 

I Elegy on Newstead Abbey 30 

I Childish Recollections 3? 

I Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled, " The 

Common Lot" 37 

To a Lady who presented the Author with the 

Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 37 

Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher 37 

Remembrance 38 

The Death of Calmar and Orla 38 

L'Amitie est L* Amour sans Ailes 40 

The Prayer of Nature 41 

To Edward Noel Long, Esq 41 

To a Lady 42 

I would I were a careless Child 43 

When I roved a young Highlander 43 

To George, Earl Delawarr 44 

To the Earl of Clare. 45 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Chitrch- 

yard of Harrow g 

Occasional Pieces: — 

On Revisiting Harrow 46 

Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell 46 

The Adieu 47 

To Anne 48 

To Anne , 4S 

To a Vain Lady 48 * 



XIV 



CO.VT/l.VTS. 



PAGE 

Occasional Pieces — <r <« inue :. 

To the Author of a Sonnet, beginning " ' Sad 

is my verse,' you say, 'and yet no 

tear* " 49 

Farewell to the Muse 49 

On Finding a Fan 49 

To an Oak a t Newstead 49 

To my Son 50 

Farewell ! if ever fondest Prayer 50 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul 51 

When we Two parted 51 

To a youthful Friend 51 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a 

Skull 52 

Well ! thou art happy 52 

Inscription on the Monument of a New- 
foundland Dor = 52 

To a Lady, on being asked my Reason for 

quittina; England ' ^ the F .g 53 

Remind me not. Remind not 53 

There was a Time, I need not name 53 

And wilt thou weep when > am low ". 54 

Fill the Goblet again 54 

Stanzas to a Lady on Leaving England 54 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on board the 

Lisbon Packet 55 

To Florence 56 

Lines written in an Album, at Malta. ,, 56 

Stanzas composed during a 'x hr.nderstorm. 56 

Stanzas written in passing the .m' :ian Gulf 57 

The Spell is broke, the Charm flown \ 57 

Written after swimming from Scstos to Aby- 

dos 57 

Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orcho- 

menus 58 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 58 

Translation of the Nurse's Dole in the Medea 

of Euripides 5G 

My Epitaph 5C 

Substitute for an Epitaph 59 

Lines written beneath a Picture 5^ 

Translation of the famous Greek War Song. . . 59 

Translation of the Romaic Song 59 

On Parting 60 

On a Cornelian Heart which was broken 60 

Lines to a Lady weeping 60 

The Chain I gave Co 

Epitaph for Joseph Blackctt, late Poet and 

Shoemaker 60 

Farewell to Mah:i Co 

To Dives. A Fragment 61 

On Moore's last Operatic Farce, or Farcical 

Opera 61 

Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines 

exhorting the Author to be cheerful, and to 

• • banish care" 61 



PAGB 

Address spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane 

1 heatre, Saturday, October 10, 181 2 . , 62 

Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales- 

Owen 63 

Remember thee ! Remember thee ! 63 

Parenthetical Address 63 

To Time 63 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song 64 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle 64 

On being asked what was the " Origin of 

Love" 65 

Remember him whom Passion's Power 65 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend 65 

Sonnets to Genevra 65 

From the Portuguese 66 

From the French 66 

Windsor Poetics 66 

The Devil's Drive; an unfinished Rhapsody. . 66 
Stanzas for Music: " I speak not, 1 trace not, I 

breathe not thy name" 67 

To Lord Thurlow 67 

To Thomas Moore. Written the evening be- 
fore his visit to Mr. Leigh Hunt, in Horse- 
monger Lane Gaol, May 19, 18x3 68 

Address intended to have been spoken at the 

Caledonian laceting, 1814 68 

Condolatory Address to Sarah Countess of 

Jersey.. 68 

Fragment f --x Epistle to Thomas ?.Ioore. . , 69 
Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter 

Parker, Bart 69 

To . ;lshazzar. . ,. 70 

Stanzas Mu^' : " There be none of Eeau- 

L^ - daue^htcrs" 70 

Stanzas fo:- Music: "There's not a joy the 

world can give like that it tokes away". ... 70 

Darkness 70 

Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. R. 

B. Sheridan .... 71 

Churchill's Grave 73 

Prometheus 73 

A Fragment 73 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 74 

A very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Alhama 74 

Stanzas for Music: "They .say that hope Ls 

happiness" 75 

To Thomas Moore 75 

To Samuel Rogers, Esq ;6 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova 76 

Song for the Luddites 76 

Vcrsicles 76 

Ho, we'll go no more a Rovir.:: 76 

To Thomas Moore 76 

To Mr. Murray 76 

Epiitle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polldori 77 



CONTEK'TS, 



xy 



PAGE 

Occasional Pieces — contit, ued. 

Epistle to Mr. Murray 77 

To Mr. Murray 78 

On the Birth of John William Rizjo Hoppncr. 78 

Ode on Venice 78 

Translation from Vittorelli, On a Nun 80 

Stanzas to the Po 80 

Sonnet to George the Fourth, on the Repeal of 

Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Forfeiture 81 

Epigfram. From the French of Rulhiercs 81 

Stanzas 81 

On my Wedding-Day 82 

Epitaph for William Pitt. 82 

Epigram 82 

Stanaes 82 

Epigram 82 

The Charity Bail 82 

Epigram, on the Braziers' Company having 

resolved to present an Address to Queen 

Caroline 82 

Epigram en my Wedaing-Day. To Penelope. 82 

On my thirty-third Birthday. January 22, 1S21 82 

Martial, Lib. X., Epig. 1 82 

Bowles and Campbell 83 

Epigrams 83 

Epitaph 83 

Tohn Keats 83 

Ihe Conques 83 

To Mr. Murray 83 

The Irish Avatar 83 

Stanzas written on the road between Florence 

and Pisa 85 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 85 

Impromptu 85 

To the Countess of Blessington 86 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems 86 

Stanzas for Music 86 

On this Day 1 complete my Thirty-Sixth Year. 

Missolonghi, January 22, 1824 86 

Hebrew Melodies :— . 

She Walks in Beauty 87 

The H&rp the Monarch Minstrel swept 87 

If that High World 87 

I The wild Gazelle 87 

* Oh ! weep for those 88 

On Jordan's Banks 88 

Jephtha's Daughter 88 

Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 88 

My soul is dark 88 

1 saw Thee weep 88 

Thy Days are done 89 

Saul 89 

Song of Saul before his last Battle 89 

"All is Vanity, saith the Preacher " 89 

When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 90 



PAGB 

Vision of Belsliazzar 90 

Sun of the Sleepless ! pc 

Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

to be 90 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 91 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus 91 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and 

wept 91 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 91 

A Spirit passed before me 92 

Poems on Napoleon : — 

Ode to Napoleon 92 

Ode from the French 94 

To Napoleon 95 

On the Star of " The Legion of Honor " 95 

Napoleon's Farewell 96 

Poems to Thyrza : — 

To Thyrza 96 

Away, away, ye Notes of Woe ! 97 

One Struggle more and 1 am free 97 

Euthanasia 98 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 98 

If sometimes in the Haunts of Men 99 

Domestic Pieces: — 

Fare thee well 100 

A Sketch 100 

Stanzas to Augusta : " When all around grew 

drear and dark " loi 

Stanzas to Augusta : " Though ^hc day of my 

destiny's over " 102 

Epistle to Augusta 102 

Endorsement to the Deed of Separation. In 

the April of j8i6. .- 104 

The Dream T04 

Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill ... . 106 

Satires : — 

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. . . . 107 

Hints from Horace 123 

The Curse of Minerva 135 

The Waltz : An Apostrophic Hymn 138 

The Vision of Judgment 143 

The Age of Bronze 155 

The Blues : A Literary Eclogue 163 

CwLDE Harold's Pilgrimage : A Romaunt .... 168 

Canto the First 170 

Canto the Second 183 

Canto the Third 196 

Canto the Fourth 2u 

Tales:— 

The Giaour 235 

The Bride of Abydos : A Turkish Tale : — 

Canto the First 250 

Canto the Second 2$3 



XVI 



CO.VTEA'TS. 



PAGE 

The Corsair 264 

Canto the First 264 

Canto the Second 271 

Canto the Third 277 

Lara : — 

Canto the First 285 

Canto the Second 292 

The Siege of Corinth 299 

PAnsiNA 310 

The Prisoner OF Chillon 316 

Bepfo 321 

M AZEPP A 33 1 

The Island : — 

Canto the First 339 

Canto the Second 342 

Canto the Third 348 

Canto the Fourth 351 

The Lament of Tasso 355 

The Prophecy of Dante 358 

Canto the First 359 

Canto the Second 361 

Canto the Third 363 

Canto the Fourth 365 

Tmb Morgante Maggiore : 

Canto the First 367 



PAGE 

Francesca of Rimini 375 

Dramas : — 

Manfred 376 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice 592 

SaRDAN APALUS 434 

The Two FoscARi 470 

Cain: a Mystery 49O 

Heaven and Earth : a Mystery 519 

Werner; or, The Inheritance 532 

The Deformed Transformed 575 

Don Juan: — 

Canto the First. 592 

Canto the Second 614 

Canto the Third 634 

Canto the Fourth C46 

Canto the Fifth 657 

Canto the Sixth 673 

Canto the Seventh 685 

Canto the Eighth 693 

Canto the Ninth 706 

Canto the Tenth 715 

Canto the Eleventh 723 

Canto the f welfLh 732 

Canto the Thirteenth , . ., 74 1 

Canto the Fourteenth 753 

Canto the Fifteenth 761 

Caa to the Sixteenth 7/7: 




.^>&^i/ <5a^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS: 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 
[first published in 1807. J 

" Vlrginibus puerisque canto.'* — Horace, lib. iii. Ode i. 
«' M^T ap fxe fj,d\* aivee, firfre Tt vetKet."— Homer, liiad, x. 249. 
•* He whistled as he went, for want of thought." — Dryden. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 

FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., 
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED. 

BY HIS 
OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the 
difficulties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption 
for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more use- 
fully employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately com- 
pleted his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is 
perhaps unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of 
illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, ** Childish Recollections," 
in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of 
praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has 
been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that 
the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by 
which poetical genius is to be estimated: yet, ** to do greatly," we must ** dare greatly;" 
and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. *' I have 
passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the ** cast of the die." In the latter event, 
I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of th^se 
effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared 
much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, ** it is one thing to write what may 
please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biased in our 
favor, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no 
connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." To 
the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that 
these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be 
liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor 
which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater 
ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original 
pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accus- 
tomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything 
entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has 
already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to 
divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me **to 
this sin;" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it 
must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace 
its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an in- 
truder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the 
Highlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so ele- 
vated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed 
both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from 
their productions: while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the 
latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others 
** virtim volitare per ora?'' I look to the few who will hear with patience *^ duUe est 
desipere in loco.^^ To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, 
and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst *' the mob of 
gentlemen who write" — my readers must determine whether I dare say **with ease" — or 
the honor of a posthumous page in The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors — a work to 
which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable 
length, sound and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
shadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 

AVith slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates 
of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a 
few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be 
found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I 
should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even in the very doubtful 
event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same 
nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,* *' that wnen 
a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit 
handsomely allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical cen- 
sors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would 
rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honors granted 
solely to a title. 



* Frederick Howard, fifth Earl of Carlisle, author of fugitive pieces and two tragedies, was bom 1748, and 
died in 1826. 




HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

WRITTEN FROM 1S02 to 1807. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 

COUSIX TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR 
TO HIM.f- 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening 
gloom, 
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb. 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay. 
That clay where once such animation 
beam'd; 
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey: 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life re- 
deem'd. 

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit 
soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of 
day; 
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds 
repay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals fleaven ar- 
raign. 

And, madly, godlike Providence accuse? 
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain; 

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous 
face; 

*Admiral Parker's daughter. 

tThe author claims the indulgence of the reader more 
for this piece than perhaps any other in the collection; 
but as it was written at an earUer period than the rest 
(being composed at fclie age of fourteen), and his first 
essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of 
his friends in Its present state, to making either addition 
or alteration. 



Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO E- 



Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 

To love, than rank with vice combined. 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth. 

Yet envy not this gaudy state; 

Thine is the pride of modest w^orth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet. 

Since worth of rank supplies the place. 



TO D— . 

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever; 
Till Envy, with malignant grasp, ^ 

Detach d thee from my breast forever. 

True, she has forced thee from my breast. 
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 

Without thee, where would be my heaven? 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

'AaTi]p irpii' fxeu iKafine^ ivi ^u)Oi<tlv ewo^. 

Laertius. 

Oh, Friend! forever loved, forever dear! 

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd 

bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of 

death ! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802— 



Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay. 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delight. 
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! [cheer, 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will 
Vet other offspring soothe his anguish here: 
But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface? 
Ah! none I — a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; 
To all, save one, is consolation known. 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 



A FRAGMENT. 
When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my. spirit, joyful in their choice: 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall 
ride, [side; 

Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, 
To mark the spot where earth to earth re- 
turns! [stone; 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd 
My epitaph shall be my name alone: 
If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 
(Jh! may no other fame my deeds repay! 
That^ only that^ shall single out the spot; 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEV. 

" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? 
Thou lookestfrom thy tower to-day; yet a few years, 
and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in the 
empty court." — Ossian. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the 

hollow winds whistle; [decay; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to 

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and 

thistle [in the way. 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd 

Of the mail-cover'd l^arons, who proudly to 
battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Pales- 
tine's plain, 



The escutcheon and shield, which with every 
blast rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with heart-string- 
ing numbers, [rell'd wreath; 
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-lau- 
NearAskalon's towers John of Horistan slum- 
bers, [death. 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by 

Paul and Plubert, too, sleep in the valley of 

Cressy; [fell: 

For the safety of Edward and England they 

My fathers! the tears of your country redress 

ye; [nals can tell. 

How you fought, how you died, still her an- 

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors 
contending,* 
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the 
bleak field; [fending. 

For the rights of a monarch their country de- 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

Shades of heroes, farewell; your descendant, 
departing [adieu! 

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance im- 
parting [yt>u. 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separa- 
I tion, 

1 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; 
;Far distant he goes with the same emulation, 
I The flame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

I That fame and that memory still will he 

I cherish, [renown; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your 

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 

W^hen decay'd, may he mingle his dust 

with your own. 

LINES 

WRITTEN IN " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN EN- 
GLISH gentleman: by j. j. rousseau: founded on 

FACTS." 

" Away, away, your flattenng arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts: 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDKESSKJ) 

TO MISS 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts 
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 

* Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles 1. 
were defeated —Prince Rupert, son of the Elector Pal- 
;itiiic, and nephew to Charles 1. He afterwards com- 
manded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Exist but in imagination — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation: 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face, 

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me. 

He never wishes to deceive thee: 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou'lt there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises: 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty; 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery — 'tis truth. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS 
WHEN DYING.* 



SOUL 



Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humor gay. 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him alike are always known. 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee; 
But at the sight my senses fly; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die : 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short. 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head. 
My ears with tingling echoes ring. 
And life itself is on the wing; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporary death. 



'Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes comesque corporis. 
Quae nunc abibis in loca — 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula 
Nee, ut soles, dabisjocos?" 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 
He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd. 

And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 
By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd. 

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move! 

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

" Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. iv. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease [please ? 
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom 
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 
That I might live for love and you again: 
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate; 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.] 
Ye Cupids, droop each little head. 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread. 
My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved: 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved! 

And, softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to cleave the air. 
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now, having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return. 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn. 

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. 

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
From whom no earthly power can save. 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; 
Thou art the cause of all her woe. 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLExN. 

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire; 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss. 
And dwell an age on every kiss: 
Nor then my soul should sated be; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



1S02- 



Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;' 
Still would we kiss, and kiss forever; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavor: 
Could I desist? — ah! never — never! 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

[ Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.] 
The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamors can control; 
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
^Vould awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors there unfurl'd. 

He would unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an expiring world. 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile ; [smile. 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd 



FROM ANACREON. 

[Oe'Aw Aeyeii/ ArpecSa^, k. t. A.] 
I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire; 
To echo, from its rising swell. 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone: 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name: 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due; 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
To tell the tale my heart must feel: 
Love, Love alone my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss ^nd sighs of flame, 



FROM ANACREON. 

[Mco-oi/VKTtats rro0* u)pai9, k. t. A.] 
'TwAS now the hour when Night had driven 
Her car half round yon sable heaven; 
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 
His arctic charge around the pole: 
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep: 
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy. 
Descending from the realms of joy, 
Quick to my gate directs his course, 
And knocks with all his little force. 
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose— 
** What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 
** Alas! " replies the wily child, 
In faltering accents sweetly mild, 
*' A hapless infant here I roam. 
Far from my dear maternal home. 
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast! 
The nightly storm is pouring fast. 
No prowling robber lingers here. 
A wandering baby who can fear?" 
I heard his seeming artless tale, 
I heard his sighs upon the gale: 
My breast was never pity's foe. 
But felt for all the baby's woe. 
I drew the bar, and by the light. 
Young Love, the infant, met my sight; 
His bow across his shoulders flung. 
And thence his fatal quiver hung 
(Ah! little did I think the dart 
Would rankle soon within my heart). 
W' ith care I tend my weary guest. 
His little fingers chill my breast: 
His glossy curls, his azure wing, 
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 
His shivering limbs the embers warm; 
And now, reviving from the storm. 
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 
Than swift he seized his slender bow; 
** I fain would know, my gentle host," 
He cried, *' if this its strength has lost; 
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 
The strings their former aid refuse." 
With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 
Deep in my tortured heart it lies; 
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh VI: 
*' My bow can still impel the shaft: 
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS 
OF yI^:SCHYLUS. 

[Mi76a/ui 6 Trdi'Ta ve/atov, k. t. A.] 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
Both gods and mortals homage pay, 



-iSo;. 



HOURS OF ID LEX ESS. 



Ne'er may my soul thy powers disown, 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; 
My voice shall raise no impious strain, 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How different now thy joyless fate. 
Since first Hesione thy bride, 

When placed aloft in god-like state. 
The blushing beauty by thy side. 

Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 

And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless 
frown'd. 



TO EMMA. 

Since now the howr is come at last, 

Wh-en you must quit your anxious lover; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas! that pang will be severe. 

Which bids us part to meet no more; 

Which tears me far from one so dear. 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours. 
And joy will mingle with our tears, 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years; 

Where, from this Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell; 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run. 
And spend the hours in childish play; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
Forgot to scare the hovering flies. 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes. 

See still the little painted bark, 

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale; 

These sceaes I must retrace alone: 
Without thee, what will they avail? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace. 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace ? 



This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tesrs our cheeks bedew; 

This is of love the final close, 
O God! the fondest, last adieu! 



TO M. S. G. 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows! 

Yet is the daring wish represt; 

For that — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 

Yet I conceal my love — and why? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 

No! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the priest's decree: 

By any ties but those divine. 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know; 

With joy I court a certain doom. 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 

Rather than such a sting impart, 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell; 

Thy innocence and mine to save — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace; 

Which to obtain, my soul would dare 
All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free. 
No matron shall thy shame reprove; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE. 
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes. 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802— 



And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say? 1 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 

Remembrance only can remain — 

But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret : 
Nor let thy mind past joys review — 

Our only hope is to forget! 



But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall 

o'ertake us, [sympathy glow. 

And our breasts, which alive^ with such 

W^ill sleep in the grave till the blast shall 

awake us, [laid low, — 

W^hen calling the dead, in earth's bosom 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts 

of pleasure, [inglyflow: 

W^hich from passion like ours may unceas- 

Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in 

full measure. 

And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 



TO CAROLINE. 

When I hear you express an affection so warm. 

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

Foryour lip would the soul of suspicion disarm. 

And your eye beams a ray which can never 

deceive. 

Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, 

deploring, [a tear; 

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer re- 
taining [the breeze, 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses re- 
maining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'Tis this,' my beloved, which spreads gloom 

o'er my features, [decree. 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the 

Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His 

creatures, [of me. 

In the death which one day will deprive you 

Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emo- 
tion, [vade; 
No doubt can the mind of your lover in- 
He worships each look with such faithful de- 
votion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade, 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh! when shall the grave hide forever my 
sorrow ? 
Oh ! when shall my soul wing her fligh . from 
this clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
But brings with new torture, the curse of to- 
day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow 

no curses, 

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me 

from bliss; 

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury 

flakes bright'ning. 

Would my lips breathe a flame which no 

stream could assuage, 

On our foes should my glance launch in 

vengeance its lightning, [its rage. 

With transport my tongue give a loose to 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants de- 
light: 
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the 
sight. 
Yet still, though we bend with a feign 'd resig- 
nation, [cheer. 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more con- 
solation; 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they 

place me, [are fled? 

Since in life, love and friendship forever 

If again in the mansion of death I embrace 

thee. 

Perhaps they will leave unmolested the 

dead, 



^i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem, 

Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize; 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid; 

Or pupil of the prudish school, 
In single sorrow doom'd to fade? 

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was, in sooth, a genuine bard : 
His was no vain, fictitious flame: 

Like his, may love be thy reward, 
But not thy hapless fate the same. 



Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 
From Adam till now, has with wretched- 
ness strove; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleas- 
ures are past — [dove — 

For years fleet away with the wings of the 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

*A Bap/StTO? fie xopfiai? 

'Epwra \x.ovvov ijxel. — Anacreon. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance; 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has 

wove! [glance, 

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss 

of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, 

Whose pastoral passions are made for the 

grove; 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets 

would flow, [love! 

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
Or the Nine be disposed from your service 
to rove. 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse. 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love! 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! 
Though prudes may condemn me, and big- 
ots reprove, [heart, 
I court the effusions that spring from the 
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss 
of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical 

themes, [move: 

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 

What are visions like these to the first kiss 

of love? 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A 
GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. 
Where are those honors, Ida ! once your own. 
When Probus filled your magisterial throne? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place. 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade; 
With noisy nonsense and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools, 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause; 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom; 
Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame. 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade; [stray'd, 
Whom still afi'ection taught me to defend. 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend. 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade lAee obey, and gave me to command;* 
Thee, on w^hose head a few short years will 

shower 
The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control. 
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes. 
And wink at faiilts they tremble to chastise. 



* '* At every public school, the junior boys are com- 
pletely subservient to the upper forms till they attain a 
seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, 
very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain 
period, they command in turn those who succeed," 



10 



HOCRS OF IDLENESS. 



1802- 



When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, net to thee — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn — 
When these declare, *< that pomp alone should 

wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" 
Believe them not; — they point the path to 

shame. 
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth. 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth. 
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, for- 
bear; 
For ivell I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes I I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away; 
Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous mind, | 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. I 
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, \ 
Whom Indiscretion liail'd her favorite child; ' 
Though every error stamps me for her own, i 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; ! 
Though my proud heart no precept now can 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim, [tame, 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power. 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 
With long-drawn names that grace no page 

beside; 
Then share with titled crowds the common lot. 
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot: 
While naught divides thee from the vulgar dead 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head. 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll. 
Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may had 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their follies and their faults, 
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
In records destined never to be read. 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Exalted more among the good and wise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As first in rank, the first in talent too: 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun; 
Not P'ortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
One, though a courtier, lived a, man of worth, 



And call'd, proud boast ! the British drama forth. 
Another view, not less renown'd for wit; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates l^t; 
Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine; 
In «very splendid part ordain'd to shine: 
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
The pride of princes, and the boast of song. 
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their 
Not heir to titles only, but to fame. [name; 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship 

all were mine: 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue. 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
Alas! they love not long, who love so well. 
jTo these adieu! nor let me linger o'er 
I Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
I Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
I Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part 
, Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; 
jThe coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
i Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same 

sphere, 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate. 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by, 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe. 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known 

voice: 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 
If these — but let Ine cease the lengthen'd 

strain, — 
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain. 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 



FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
OF MISS CHAWORTH. 

Hills of Annesley! bleak and barren, 

Wh^re my thoughtless childhood stray'd. 



^1807. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



II 



Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic: 

Who reads false quantities in Seale, * 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal; 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: f 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage, 

The square of the hypothenuse.:|; 

Still, harmless are t^ese occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
When vice and infamy combine. 

When drunkenness and dice invite, 
As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew. 

Who plans of reformation lay: 
In humble attitude they sue, 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit. 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'Tis morn; — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white. 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell; 

'Tis hush'd — what sounds are these I hearr' 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song. 

The royal minstrel's hallowed strain; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused. 
Even as a band of raw beginners; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, [him. 
Had heard these blockheads sing before 



How the northern tempests, warring. 
Howl above thy tufted shade! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
Former favorite haunts I see; 

Now no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 



GRANTA: A MEDLEY. 

'Apyvpe'at? k6yxa.i<T fidxov Koi iravra KpaTrjaatS' 

Oh! could Le Sage's demon's gift* 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. 

Lo! candidates and voters lie 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: 
A race renown'd for piety, [ber. 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slum- 
Lord H , indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage, reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But ver)'- seldom — now and then. 

They know the Chancellor has got 
Some pretty livings in disposal : 

Each hopes that one may be his lot. 
And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, unheeded and unseen, 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for college prizes 

^its poring by the midnight lamp; 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
W^ith all the honors of his college, 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan precisely metres Attic, 



* The Dtable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the 
demon, piaces Don Cleuias on an elevated situation, ana 
Upropf§ the houses for inspection, 



* Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays consid- 
erable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected 
in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. 

t The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and 
is not very intelligible. 

% The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of 
ihc hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other twg 
sides of ^ right-angled ^r jangl^ 



12 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To us his psalms had ne'er descended — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken. 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh I had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease. 

The devil a soul had stayed to hear. 

But if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read: 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires! 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires; 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VIL- 
LAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW- 
ON-THE-HILL. 

" Oh ! raihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos." 

Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved re- 
collection [past; 
Embitters the present, compared with the 
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of 
reflection, [to last; 
And friendships were form'd, too romantic 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief 

allied; [membrance. 

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading re- 

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is 

denied! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 

The streams where we swam, and the fields 

where we fought; [we resorted. 

The school where, loud warned by the bell. 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues 

taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have pon 

der'd. 

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard 1 

wander'd, ['^Y- 

To catch the last gleam of the sun's selting 

I once more view the room, with spectators 

surrounded, [thrown; 

Where, as Zan^a, 1 UoU on Alon/.o u'er- 



While, to swell my young pride, such ap- 
plauses resounded, 
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep impre- 
cation, [deprived; 

By my daughters of kingdom and reason 
Till fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 

I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I re- 
gret you! 
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget 
you: 
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 

While fate shall the shades of the future 

unroll! [fore me. 

Since darkness (/ershadows the prospect be- 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which 

await me, [view. 

Some new scene of pleasure should open to 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall 

elate me, [fancy knew!" 

"Oh! such were the days which my in- 



TO M . 

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire. 
With bright but mild afl"ection shine. 

Though they might kindle less desire. 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 

We must admire, but still despair; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone, 

She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own; 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize. 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appall, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all; 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 

'Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; 



* Mos.si).», a cjii^iiipoiaiy of Oarrit:k, famous for his 
perfunuiiiicc of Zan^a, 



-i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



n 



But they would ne'er ]5crmit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roil, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear; 

E'en suns, which systems now control, 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.' 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman! experience might have told me, 

That all must love thee who behold thee; 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are naught; 

But, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

O Memory! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled, and passion's over! 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows ! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye. 

When, lo! she changes in a day. 

This record will forever stand, 

" Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."f 



If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you 
may smile. 
Oh! think not my penance deficient! 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers 
beguile, 
To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely 
Extend not your anger to sleep; [forgive; 

For in visions alone your affection can live — 
1 rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast, 
Shed o'er me your languor benign; [last. 

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the 
What rapture celestial is mine! 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given: 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath. 

If this be a foretaste of heaven! 

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft 
Nor deem me too happy in this; [brow, 

* " Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return/" — 

Shakspeare. 

t This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish 
proverb. 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 
i Though strong as mortal art could give, 
; My constant heart of fear disarms, 
I Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold, 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye, 
Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 

Must all the painter's art defy, 
And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue; 

But where's the beam so sweetly straying. 
Which gave a lustre to its blue. 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? 

Sweet copy! far more dear to me. 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be. 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
L^nconscious that her image there 
j Held every sense in fast control. 

I Through hours, through years, through time 
I 'twill cheer; 

i My hope in gloomy moments raise; 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear. 
And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 

Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged. 
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell you why — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; 

And, Lesbia! we are not much older. 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 



H 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802— 



Sixteen was then our utmost age, 

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage. 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love! 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
I that am guilty of love's treason; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love! suspect your truth. 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended; 

For, oh! I loved you most sincerely; 
And — though our dream at last is ended — 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers; 

Absence has made me prone to roving! 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning; 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love! 

More constant they may prove, indeed; 
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG 
LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET 
FIRED BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARG- 
ING HIS PISTOLS IN A GARDEN. 

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 

And hurtling o'er thy lovely head. 

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Yex'd to behold such beauty here, 

Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
Diverted from its first career. 

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; 

But Heaven, with interposing power. 
In pity turn'd the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thrilling bosom fell; 
Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 

Extracted from it» glistening cell: 



Say, what dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne. 
What punishment wilt thou decree? 

Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore; 

It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

wSuch expiation of my guilt : 
CoYne, then, some other mode elect; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose then, relentless! and I swear 
Naught shall thy dread decree prevent; 

Yet hold — one little word forbear! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 

'Act, 5' diet /me c^evyet. — Anacreon. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pesti- 
lent dew. 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them forever, in love's last adieu. 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad 

heart. 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true; 

The chance of an hour may command us to 

part. 

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief- 
swollen breast, [renew:" 
Will whisper, '■'■ Our meeting we yet may 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's 
represt. 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu! 

Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of 
youth ' [ers as they grew; 

Love twined round their childhood his flow- 
They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 

Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in 
hue? 
Yet why do I ask? — to distraction a prey. 
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last 
adieu! 



^iSo;. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



15 



Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning man- 
kind? 
From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the 
wind; 
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu I 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy 
chains [knew; 

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments 
Despair now mflames the dark tide of his veins ; 

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt 

in steel! [fevv, 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are 

Who laughs at the pang which he never can 

feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last 

adieu! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with 
the blast; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle 
shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress altermately strew; 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
Mis cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAM^TAS. 

In law an infant, and in years a boy,* 
In mind a slave to every vicious joy; 
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd; 
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; 
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child; 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool; 
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from 

school: 
Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, 
And found the goal when others just begin : 
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former 

chain. 
And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



* In law, every person is an infant who has not at- 
tained the age of twenty-one* 



TO MARION. 
Marion! why that pensive brow? 
What disgust to life hast thou? 
Change that discontented air; 
j Frowns become not one so fair. 
I'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
I Love's a stranger to thy breast; 
He in dimpling smiles appears, 
•Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
Or bends the languid eyelid down. 
But shuns the cold, forbidding frown. 
;Then resume thy former fire, 
jSome will love, and all admire; 
While that icy aspect chills us. 
Naught but cool indifference thrills us. 
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 
Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
Eyes like thine were never meant 
To hide their orbs in dark restraint; 
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 
Still in truant beams they play. 
Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse: 
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short, she 
Dreads lest the subject should transport me: 
And flying off in search of reason, 
Brings prudence back in proper season. 
All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
I think, is neither here nor there) 
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing. 
Were form'd for better things than sneering: 
Of soothing compliments divested. 
Advice at least's disinterested; 
Such is my artless song to thee. 
From all the flow of flattery free; 
Counsel like mine is like a brother's, 
My heart is given to some others; 
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen. 
It shares itself among a dozen. 
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
This warning, though it may delight not; 
And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion: 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us. 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
These cannot fix our souls to love; 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble train. 
To hail you queens of all creation. 
Know, Ia ft word, ^lis Animation, 



i6 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802- 



TO A LADY, 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF 
HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND AP- 
POINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET 
HIM IN THE GARDEN. 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine. 

In tiiiner chains our hearts conhne. 

Than all th' unmeaning protestations 

\Vhich swell with nonsense love orations. 

Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it, 

Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it: 

Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 

With groundless jealousy repine, 

With silly whims and fancies frantic, 

Merely to make our love romantic? 

Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 

And fret with self-created anguish; 

Or doom the lover you have chosen. 

On winter nights to sigh half frozen; 

In leafless shades to sue for pardon. 

Only because the scene's a garden? 

For gardens seem, by one consent. 

Since Shakspeare set the precedent. 

Since Juliet first declared her passion, 

To form the place of assignation.* 

Oh! would some modern muse inspire. 

And seat her by a sea-coal fire; 

Or had the bard at Christmas written, 

And laid the scene of love in Britain, 

lie surely, in commiseration. 

Had changed the place of declaration. 

In Italy I've no objection; 

Warm nights are proper for reflection; 

But here our climate is so rigid, 

That love itself is rather frigid: 

Think on our chilly situation. 

And curb this rage for imitation; 

Then let us meet, as oft we've done. 

Beneath the influence of the sun; 

Or, if at midnight I must meet you. 

Within your mansion let me greet you: 

There we can love for hours together. 

Much better, in such snowy weather. 

Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 

That ever witness'd rural loves; 



* " To form the place of assignation."] In the above 
little piece the author has been accused by some candid 
readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom 
he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was 
written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long ia " the 
tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a 
trifling alteration of her name, into an English damsel 
walking in a garden of their own creation, during the 
month o{ Decetnber, in a village where the author never 
passed a winter. Such has been the candor of some in- 
genious critics. He would advise these liberal com- 
mentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read 
Shmkspeare, 



Then, if my passion fail to please, 
Next night I'll be content to freeze; 
No more I'll give a loose to laughter, 
But curse my fate forever after.* 



OSCAR OF ALVA.f 

A TALE. 

How sweetly shines through azure skies 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 

And hear the din of arms no more ! 

But often has yon rolling moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd; 

And view'd at midnight's silent noon. 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd: 

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
W^hich scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. 
She saw the gasping warrior low : 

While many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light; 

But now she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 

And grey her towers are seen afar; 

No more her heroes urge the chase. 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan? 

W^hy grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall: 



* " But curse my fate forever after. '] Having heard 
that a very severe and indelicate censure had been 
passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quota- 
tionfrom an admired work, " Carr's Stranger in France :'* 
— "As we were contemplating a painting on a large 
scale, in which, among other figures, is tiie uncovered 
whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who 
seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after 
having attentively surveyed it through her glass, ob- 
served to her party, that there was a great deal of in- 
decorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whis- 
pered in my ear ' that the indecorum was in the re- 
mark.' " 

t The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the 
story of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume 
o{'Sc\i^\&rs Armenian: or. The Ghost-Seer. It also 
bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of 
Macbeth, 



—i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



17 



II rises hoarsely through the sky, 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; 

But there no more his banners rise. 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born: 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer. 
The pibroch raised its piercing note: 

To gladden more their highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float: 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past. 

And Angus hails another son; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
The boys in childhood chased the roe. 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore. 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it stream'd along the gale; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth; 
Allan had early learn'd control. 

And smooth his w ords had been from youth . 

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; 

While Allan's soul belied his form. 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came; 



And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride. 
And Angus on his Oscar smiled; 

It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
Assembled wave in Alva's hall! 

Each youth his varied plaid assumes. 
Attending on their chieftain's call. 

It is not war their aid demands. 

The pibroch plays the song of peace; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride; 

** Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said; 
** Is he not here?" the youth replied; 

*' With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

'< Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

*< Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
*' Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind? 
Would aught to her impede his way? 

**Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search aroimd! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found. 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings; 

It rises on the murmuring gale. 

Till night expands her dusky wings; 

It breaks the stillness of the night. 

But echoes through her shades in vain; 

It sounds through morning's misty light. 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave! 

Then hope is lost; in boundless grief, 
His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. 

*' Oscar, my son! — thou God of heaven 
Restore the prop of sinking age ! 



iS 



IlOrA'S OF ID LEA ESS. 



1802^ 



Or if riiat hope no more is given, 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

** Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; 

Then grant, thou God! I ask no more. 
With him his frantic sire may die! 

'* Yet he may live — away, despair! 

I')C calm, my soul! he yet may live; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear! 

C) God! my impious prayer forgive. 

^' ^Vhat, if he live for me no more, 

I sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er; 

Alas! can pangs like these be just?" 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
Till Time, which soothes severest woe, 

Had bade serenity return. 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow, 

Foi still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear: 

His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roll'd along; the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight. 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
And now his father's only joy: 

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair: 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 
Arrived the dearly destined morn; 

The year of anxious trembling past. 
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn! 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 



But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
And tall his plume of gory red; 

His voice is like the rising storm, 
But light and trackless is his tread, 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff"'d; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose. 

And all the clamorous crowd arehush'd; 

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows. 
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

*< Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me: 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

*< While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 

'* Alas!" the hapless sire replied, 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

*< W^hen Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

'* Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; 

And Allan is my last resource. 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

**Tis well," replied the stranger stern. 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; 

<*Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn: 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

<* Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return; 

Perchance the chief has only roved; 
For him thy beltane yet may burn.* 

*< Fill high the bowl the table round, 
W^e will not claim the pledge by stealth; 

With wine let every cup be crown'd; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

<« With all my soul," old Angus said. 
And fiU'd his goblet to the brim: 

<< Here's to my boy! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 



* Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of 
May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. 



-i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



19 



** Bravely, old man, this health has sped; 

But why does Allan trembling stand? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead. 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue: 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste: 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

'' And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here; 

If thus affection's strength prevails. 
What might we not expect from fear?" 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
" Would Oscar now could share our mirth !" 

Internal fear appall'd his soul; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

*' 'Tis he; I hear my murderer's voice!" 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form; 

** A murderer's voice!" the roof replies. 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
The stranger's gone — amidst the crew 

A form was seen in tartan green. 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round. 
His plume of sable stream'd on high ; [there, 

But his breast was bare with the red wounds 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild. 
On Angus bending low the knee; 

And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground. 
Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole. 
The thunders through the welkin ring; 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of 
the storm. 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon the stony floor? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast. 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

** Away! away! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" 

His sand is done — his race is run; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
His lock's are lifted by the gale : 



And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart; 

While Envy waved her burning brand. 
And pour'd her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side. 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
She bade his wounded pride rebel: 

Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom; 
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, 

Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake: 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 

His harp in shuddering chords would break. 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse. 
Shall sound his glories high in air: 

A dying father's bitter curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND 
EURYALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield. 
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
To watch the movements of the Daunian host. 
With him Euryalus sustains the post; 
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 



II OCRS OF IDIEiYKSS. 



And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant 

boy; 
Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 
As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share — 
A soul heroic, as his form was fair: 
These burn with one pure flame of generous 
In peace, in war, united still they move; [love; 
Friendship and glory form their joint reward; 
And now combined they hold their nightly 

guard. 

*' What god, exclaim'd the first, * instils this 
Or, in itself a god,' what great desire? [fire? 
My laboring soul, with anxious thought op- 

press'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling 

dim, I 

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? 
W^here confidence and ease the watch disdain, ' 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? ; 
Then hear my thought : In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their ancient 

chief: 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, ! 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found; 
Which pass'd, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
And lead ^neas from Evander's halls." ^ 

j 
W^ith equal ardor fired, and warlike joy, \ 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy: 
* 'These deeds, myNisus, shalt thou dare alone? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? ; 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar, 
As one unfit to share the toils of war? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate: 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of 

fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
And life, ignoble life, iox glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath : 
The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus: *'Calm thy bosom's fond alarms. 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth! 



But should I fall — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance: 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow. 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low. 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve. 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by 

force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie. 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? 
Who for thy sake the tempest's fury dared. 
Who for thy sake war's deadly peril shared; 
Who braved what woman never braved before. 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 

** In vain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus: *' it scorns control! [arose. 
Hence, let us haste!" — their brother guards 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the 
king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran. 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; 
wSave where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield. 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet una wed by fear. 
The faithful pair before the throne appear; 
lulus greets them; at his kind command. 
The elder first addressed the hoary band. 

** With patience " (thus Flyrtacides began) 
*< Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquests dream. 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
I Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
; Whose shade securely our design will cloak, 
I If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, 
■W'e'll bend our course to yonder mountain's 

brow. 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade when not obscured by night : 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Then shall ^neas in his pride return, 
When hostile matrons raise their offspring's 

urn; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way; 
Where yondei torrent's devious waters stray, ; 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream. 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd: 
** Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye 

raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd. 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd: 
** What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can v/e bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of heaven. [earth, 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth, 
i^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 

lulus then! ** By all the powers above! 
By those Penates who my country love! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight. 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey: 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine; 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 
An ancient cup, w^hich Tyrian Dido gave. 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave: 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
V\^hen great yEneas wears Hesperia's crown. 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal 

speed, 
,Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past: 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six cap- 
tive dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labors of to-night shall well repay. 



I 



But thou, my generous youth, whose tender 
years [veres, 

Are near my own, whose worth my heart re- 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy. 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus: ** No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 
But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart. 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line. 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine. 
Nor Troy, nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main : 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my 

cheek; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose 

now: 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 
In thee her much-loved child may live again; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless. 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame. 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe, 
*' All thou hast asked, receive," the prince 

replied; 
** Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's style but wanting to the dame.* 
Fortune an adverse, wayward course may run. 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath. 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd , 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to 

view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 



* The mother of lulus, lost on the ni^ht when Troy 
was taken. 



//orA\S OF IDLENESS. 



1802—' 



P'or friends to envy and for foes to feel; 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows. 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled 

train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 
His prayer he sends, but what can prayers 

avail. 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the 
night, [flight. 

Through sleeping foes Ihey wheel their wary 
\Vhen shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles mix'd with arms are seen; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops be- 
tween; 
Bacchus and ^lars to rule the camp combine; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine, 
** Now," cries the first, ** for deeds of blood 

prepare, 
^Vith me the conquest and the labor share : 
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, fdies; 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth re- 
press'd, [ing breast; 

And pierced proud Rhamnes through his pant- 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king re- 
posed; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had clos'd; 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armor-bearer hapless fell. 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell; 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides: 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead; 
])0unding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 
From the swoll'n veins the blackening tor- 
rents pour: [gore. 
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire; 
Half the long night in childish games was 

pass'd; 
I^ull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last: 
Ah! happier far had he the morn surveyed. 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 



In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep. 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls: 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Noisless the other's deadly vengeance came. 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
Yet wakeful Rh?esus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides; 
Full in his heart the falchion search'd his veins. 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they 

flow. 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their 

way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest 

warm: [pass'd; 

<* Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their 
I last: 

'Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn," 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in- confusion toss'd. 
They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden 

belt; 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn. 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they 

bend, 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course; 
While the slow foot theiV tardy march delay. 
The knights impatient spur along the way: 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Yolscens led. 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped; 
Now they approach the trench, and view the 

walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls; 
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning 

night. 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



23 



. Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: 
** Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus in 

arms? [no reply: 

From whence? to whom?" — He meets with 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: 
The thicket's depth with hurried pace they 

tread, [spread. 

While round the wood the hostile squadron 

With breaks entangled, scarce a path be- 
tween. 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene; 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede. 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mis- 
lead; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend. 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
** O God! my boy," he cries, ** of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left!" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze. 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys: 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way con- 
found; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights 

pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging num- 
bers dare ? 
Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
Or die with him for whom he wished to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye: — 
** Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar! 
IBy night heaven owns thy sway, by day the 
grove, [rove; 

When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase. 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting 

crowd. 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon 

sung; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 



Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the 

clay: 
He sobs, he dies — the troop in wild amaze. 
Unconscious whence the death, with terror 

gaze. [riven, 

While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples 
A second shaft with equal force is driven: 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall, 
'* Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for 

all!" [drew, 

Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: 
'* Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres! thou conscious Heaven! 

attest! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine — his early fate suspend; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend: 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs! from him your rage 

remove; [love." 

His fault was friendship, all his crime was 
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents 

the air. 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide: 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's 

ghost; [foe; 

Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every 

blow; [bleeds, 

In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies. 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the 

wound- 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 



24 



HOCKS OF IDLENESS, 



1802— 



Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's em- 
brace. 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
No future day shall see your names expire. 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, 
Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA 
OF EURIPIDES. 

f Epwre? VTrep fxev ayav, k, t. X.] 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human woe? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame. 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame. 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast: 
If thus thou comest in disguise, 

Fair Venus! from thy native heaven. 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire: 
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! 

With others wage internal war; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

P'rom me be ever distant far! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love! 
May all the hours be wing'd with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above! 
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh. 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die! 

My native soil ! beloved before, 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam! 
This very day, this very hour. 

May I resign this fleeting breath! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 



Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear. 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails,* 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart. 

To fair aff"ection's truth unknown. 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless and alone; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver keyj* 

The milder treasures of his soul — 
May such a friend be far from me. 

And ocean's storms between us roll! 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COL- 
LEGE EXAMINATION. 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god. 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding 

dome; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried. 
Though little versed in any art beside; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers 

bled. 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands ad- 
vance. 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France, 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna 

Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta; 
Can tell what edicts $age Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await; 



* Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was 
deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of thai 
city, Th« chorus from which this is taken here ad- 
dresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is taken 
with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some 
other parts of the translation. 

t The original means literally, " disclosing the bright 
key of the mind." 



^i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



25 



Or even perhaps the declamation prize. 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's* glowing style or Tully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud — 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the 

crowd : 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone; 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
No borrowed grace of action must be seen; 
"The slightest motion would displease the Dean; 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised 
cup 

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade; 
Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
Unknown, unhonored live, unwept-for die: 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise; [note,f 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Person's 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote: 
Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to 

feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;J 
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the 

head. 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with dis- 
grace. 



They'd fly to seek the next who fiU'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures 

guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 



* Demosthenes. 

t Professor Person, of Trinity College, Cambridge ; a 
man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, 
justify their preference. 

X Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty [now 
Marquis of Lansdowne] has lost his place, and subse- 
quently (I had almost said consequently) the honor of. 
represanting the University. A fact so glaring requires! 
no comment. i 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER, 
Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget; 
And though we ne'er may meet again. 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, <* I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain, to drive thee from my breast. 
My thoughts are more and more represt; 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels: 

Deceit the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mandates of the heart; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed. 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit from within reproved us, 

Say rather, ** 'twas the spirit moved us," 

Though what they uttered I repress, 

Yet I conceive thoult partly guess; 

For as on thee my memory ponders. 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I'll say. 

Thy form appears through night, through day. 

Awake, with it my fancy teems; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; 

The vision charms the hours away,' 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight, 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await, 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas! again no more we meet. 
No more our former looks repeat; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer. 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 

May heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her. 



26 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802- 



But bliss be aye her heart's partaker. 
Oh! may the happy iiK)rtal fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related, 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover! 
May that fair bosom never know 
\Vhat 'tis to feel the restless woe 
^Vhich stings the soul with vain regret 
Of him who never can forget! " 



THE CORNELIAN. 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever; 

\Vith lustre only once it shone, 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have for my weakness oft reproved me; 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 

He offer'd it with downcast look. 
As fearful that I might refuse it; 

I told him, when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd. 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
And ever since I've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth. 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

Had fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to be blind. 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well proportion'd to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen. 
His form had fix'd her fickle breast; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain'd to give the rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE 
OF THE ** WHEEL OF FORTUNE '^ AT A PRI- 
VATE THEATRE. 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 



Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; 
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim. 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect. 
Others appear more conscious of defect: 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
In all the arts of scenic action old; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; 
To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly: 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. 
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your 
But all our dramatis personce wait [praise; 
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 
No venal views our progress can retard. 
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 
For these, each Hero all his power displays. 
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 
Surely the last will some protection find; 
None to the softer sex can prove unkind; 
While Youth and Beauty form the female 

shield. 
The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail. 
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU 
APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. 

** Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his 

breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm wdiere Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 

SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 

O FACTIOUS viper! whose envenom'd tooth 

Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 

What though our *< nation's foes" lament the 

fate. 
With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power. 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 



^i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



27 



For noble spirits <* war not with the dead." 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state; 
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
"Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd; 
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; 
Not one great people only raise his urn. 
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
<' These feelings wide, let sense and truth un- 
due, 
To give the palm where Justice points its due;" 
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail. 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must 

weep, 
W^hose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep; 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan. 
While friends and foes alike his talents 

own ; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign; 
Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



THE TEAR. 

* O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.'* 



-Gray. 



When Friendship or Love our sympathies 
move. 

When Truth in a glance should appear. 
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 

But the test of affection's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile 

To mask detestation or fear; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear; 

Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, [gale. 

As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be 
his grave. 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career; 
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low. 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 



If with high-bounding pride he return to his 
bride. 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear. 
All his toils are repaid, when, embracing the 
maid. 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship 
and Truth,* 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look 
I turn'd. 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no 
My Mary to love once so dear, [more. 

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, may she live ever blest! 

Her name still my heart must revere: 
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear, [mine, 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near: 

If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight to the regions 
of night, 
And my corse shall recline on its bier. 
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes con- 
sume, 
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow the splendor of woe. 
Which the children of vanity rear; 

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES 

OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY 
OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret? 

For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love? For a time 
seem to rove; 

At the first she may frown in a pet; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs. 
They think all our homage a debt: 



* Harrow. 



28 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802 — 



Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain. 
And seem her hauteur to regret; 

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, your pangs she de 
This whimsical virgin forget; [ride, 

Some other admire, who will melt with your 
And laugh at the little coquette. [fire. 

For me, I adore some twenty or more. 
And love them most dearly; but yet. 

Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon 
them all. 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

No longer repine, adopt this design, 

And break through her slight- woven net; 

Away with despair, no longer forbear 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you're beset: 

Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed 
by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did of- 
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er, [fend, 

From friendship I strove your pangs to re- 
But I swear I will do so no more, [move, 

Since your beautiful maid your flame has re- 
No more I your folly regret; [pa-id. 

She's now most divine, and I bow at the 
Of this quickly reformed coquette, [shrine 

Yet still, I must own, I should never have 
known 

From your verses what else she deserved; 
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate. 

As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

vSince the balm-breathing kiss of this magical 
miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce; 
'Since the ** world you forget, when your lips 
once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when ** I rove, I know nothing of 
'Tis true, I am given to range: [love;" 

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good 
number. 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance. 
To humor a whimsical fair; 



Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't 
Or drive me to dreadful despair, [affright, 

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall 
To mix in the Platonists' school; [reform. 

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun every w^oman for one. 
Whose image must fill my whole breast — 

Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest! 

Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd; 

Such love as you plead is pure love indeed. 
For it only consists in the word. 



' TO ELKA. 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
W^ho to women deny the soul's future ex- 
istence! [defect. 
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their 
And this doctrine would meet with a gen- 
eral resistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of 

sense, [driven ; 

He ne'er would have women from paradise 

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 

With women alone he had peopled his 

heaven. 

Yet still, to increase your calamities more. 

Not content with depriving your bodies of 

spirit, [four! — 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst 

With souls you'd dispense; but this last 

who could bear it? 

His religion to please neither party is made. 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most 

uncivil; 

Still I can't contradict, what so oft has 

been said, [the devil." 

** Though women are angels yet wedlock's 



LACHIN Y GAIR.* 
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 
In you let the minions of luxury rove; 



* Lachiny Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 
Lifch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the 
Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our 
modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, 
perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is cer- 
tainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst 
our " Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky 
hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near 
Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, 
the recollection of which has given birth to these stanzas. 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



29 



Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake 

reposes, flove: 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and 

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements 

war; [ing fountains, 

Though cataracts form 'stead of smooth-flow- 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wan- 

der'd; [plaid;* 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the 

On chieftains long perish'd my memory pon- 

der'd, [glade; 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd 

I sought not my home till the day's dying 

glory [star; 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar 

For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na 

Garr. 

*' Shades of the dead! have I not heard your 
voices [gale?" 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own High 
land vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist 
gathers, 
Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch 
na Garr. 

'* Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions 
foreboding-j- 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,}: 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthly slum- 
ber, [Braemar;§ 
You rest with your clan in the caves of 



* This word is erroneously pronounced piad : the 
proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown 
by the orthography. 

t I allude here to my maternal ancestors, *' the Gor- 
dons'^ many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince 
Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. 
This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as at- 
tachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of 
Huntly, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daugh- 
ter of James the First of Scotland, By her he left four 
sons: the third. Sir William Gordon, 1 have the honor 
to claim as one of my progenitors. 

% Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I 
am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I 
have used the name of the principal action, *^ pars pro 
totor 

§ A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also 
a Castle of Braemar. 



The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud num- 
ber, [na Garr. 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I 
left you. 
Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you. 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's 
plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic. 
To one who has roved o'er the mountains 
afar; 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! 
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch 
' na Garr! 



TO ROMANCE. 
Parent of golden dreams, Romance! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth; 
No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul. 
Where every nymph a goddess seems. 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign. 

And all assume a varied hue; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles »re true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades in every friend?* 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves; 
Confess that woman's false as fair. 

And friends have feelings for — themselves ! 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway; 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er. 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye. 

And think that eye to truth was dear; 



* It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the 
companion of Orestes, and a partner m. one of those 
friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, 
Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been 
handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of 
attachments, which in all probability never existed be- 
yond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an his- 
torian, or modern novelist. 



30 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802 — 



To bust a passing wanton's sigh, 
And melt beneath a wanton's tear! 

Romance! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat. 

And sickly Sensibility; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine; 
Who turns aside from real woe, 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh. 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; , 
And call thy sylvan female choir. 

To mourn a swain forever gone. 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and frenzy glow; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie: 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas! must perish altogether. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES, 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COM- 
PLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESGRIPTIONS 
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 

" But if any old lady, knight, priest or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition; 
If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse. 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse !" 

New Bath Guide, 

Candor compels me, Becher! to commend 
» The verse which blends the censor with the 
friend. 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
For this wild error, which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon — must I sue in vain? [part: 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways de- 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
Trecepts of prudence curb, but can't control 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 



When Love's delirium haunts the glowing 

mind. 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind: 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of 

love; 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing 

power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
Whose labor'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know! 
The artless Flelicon I boast is youth; — 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be't from me the ** virgin's mind" to 

'' taint:" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile. 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine. 
Will ne'er be ** tainted " by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment her bosom with unholy fires. 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had 

read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few. 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud; 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize. 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

"It is the voice of years that are gone! — they roll 
before me with all their deeds." — Ossian. 

Newstead! fast-falling, once resplendent 

dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's pride !* 

Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd 

tomb. 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 

Mail to thy pile! more honor'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall. 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

* Henry H. founded Newstead soon after the murdet 

of Thomas a Becket. 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



31 



No mail-clad serfs,* obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross demand ;-j- 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band: 



Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain. 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High crested banners wave thy halls within. 



Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye [time. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, [arms. 



Retrace their progress through the lapse of 
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay: 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief. 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er coidd 
view; 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found. 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise. 
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont 
to prowl; 

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay. 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings ex- 
tend, [shade. 

Soon as the gloamingif spreads her waning 
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend. 

Or matin orisons to Mary paid.g 

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed; 
Religion's charter their protecting shield, 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls. 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; 

Another Henry the kind gift recalls, || 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 



*This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem. 
The Wild Huntsman, synonymous with vassal. 

t The red cross was the badge of the crusaders. 

t As " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is 
far more poetical, and has been recommended by many 
eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his 
Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of 
its harmony. 

§ The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 
II At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII, 
bestowed Ncwstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 



The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd 
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, [brow. 

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening 
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

Ah ! vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'er comes the 
brave; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; 
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields. 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gathered laurels on a self-sought grave; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, 
to save. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him from the unequal 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; [strife,* 

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 
To lead the band where godlike Falkland 
fell.f 

From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given. 
While dying groans their painful requiem 
sound. 

Far diff"erent incense now ascends to heaven, 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod: 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with 
horse, 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds 

o'erspread, [mould; 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal 



* Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high 
commands in the royal army. The former was general- 
in-chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor 
to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James 
II.; the latter had aprincipal share in many actions. 

t Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most 
accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of 
Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's 
regiment of cavalry. 



3^ 



HOURS Of idleness. 



1802— 



From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked from repose in search of buried gold. 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with 
fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged with 
Retire : the clamor of the fight is o'er; [prey. 

Silence again resumes her awful sway, 
And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Here desolation holds her dreary court: 
What satellites declare her dismal reign! 

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort. 
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell. 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; 

W^hirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring 
breath; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones. 

Loathing the offering of so dark a death.* 

The legal rulerf now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of 

state : 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful 

realm, [hate. 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied 

The gloomy tenants, Nevvstead! of thy cells, 
Howling, resign their violated nest; 

Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to 
mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echoes float. 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; 

And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the 
breeze. 



Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the 
chase! 

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake; 
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

Ah, happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; [knew: 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, [dart : 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

N^wstead! what saddening change of scene 
is thine! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ! 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy grey worn towers; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers; 

These, these he views, and views them but 
to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 

Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget. 
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 

Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 

Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 
And bless thy future as thy former day. 



* This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred 
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of 
Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his 
partisans and the cavaliers; both mterpreted the circum- 
stance into divine interposition; but whether as approba- 
tion or condemnation, we leave for the casuists of that 
age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence 
as suited the subject of my poem. 

t Charles H. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 

**I cannot but remember such things were. 
And were most dear to me." 

When slow Disease with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing. 
And flies with every changing gale of spring; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind: 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe. 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the 

blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife. 
While Hoj^e retires appaird,and clings to life. 
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious 

hour, 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 



— i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



33 



When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our 

heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene. 
Those fairy bowers where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer 
The orb of day unveils his distant form, [storm 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless 

gleams, [dreams, 

The sun of memory, glowing through my 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlooked for and unsought; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams : 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source; 
Who, still contending in the studious race. 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 
Ida ! blest spot where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire; 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game. 
Unchanged by time or distance, seems the 

same; 
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 
The social smile of every welcome face; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe. 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe. 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past, 
I bless the former, and forgive the last, [breast. 
Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign. 
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes; 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by de- 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, [ceit. 
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 



When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan; 

Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink, 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie: 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is 

heard, 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word? 
Although against that word his heart rebel, 
And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing; 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance 

retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomposus' virtues are but known to few; 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall. 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again; 
Soon must her early song forever cease. 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band. 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort; 
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
Or all the sable glories of his gown; 
Who, thus transplanted from his fathers 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — [school — . 
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise. 
The dear preceptor of my early days : 
Probus, the pride of science, and the boast,* 



* Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man re- 
tired from his situation in March, 1805, after having re- 
sided thirty-five years at Harrow ; the last twenty as 
head-master ; an office he held with equal honor to him- 
self and advantage to the very extensive school over 
which he presided. Panegyric would here be superflu- 
ous ; it would be useless to enumerate qualifications 
which were never doubted. A considerable contest took 
place between three rival candidates for the vacant 
chair : of this I can only say. 

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi % 

Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis haeres. 

3 



34 



IIOrRS OF /DLFXESS. 



1802 — 



To Ida now, alas! forever lost, [page, {The sighing weeds that hide their nameless 

\\"\\.\\ him, for years, we search'd the classic] grave. 

Andfear'd the master, though we loved the. And here my name, and many an early friend's, 



sage; 
Retired r>t last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labor is the blest retreat. 
Tomposus fills his magisterial chair; 
Pomposus governs — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot: 



Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place. 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe. 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was 

law ; 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 



No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — ^ To rule the little tyrants of an hour; [^ay> 
To him my tribute is already paid. Though sometimes with the tales of ancient 

jThey pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
High,throughthoseelms,withhoary branches'.. And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 
crown d, 'And thus they dealt the combat side by side; 

Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round: Just i^ this place the mouldering walls they 
There Science, from her favor'd seat, sui^veys scaled favail'd: 

The vale where rural Nature claims her praise :;^oi. bolts ' nor bars against their strength 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, JHere Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 

W^ho move in joy, and dance along the plain; ^nd here he falter'd forth his last farewell; 
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue; ^nd here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; l While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home;" 

Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, kvhile thus they speak the hour must soon ar. 
In rival bands between the wickets run, j-jyg 

Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, | v/hen names of these, like ours, alone survive, 



Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course 
But these with slower steps direct their way. 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents 
stray; [treat, 

W^hile yonder few search out some green re- 
And arbors shade them from the summer heat: 
Others, again, a pert and lively crew, [view. 



Yet a few years one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no 
more. 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — ■ 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, , Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; j world. 

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
Tradition treasures for a future day: [fought,' I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
* * 'T was here the gather'd swains for vengeance And all I sought or hoped was to forget, [face, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd 

bought; I Some old companion of my early race, 

Here have we fled before superior might. Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy. 

And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." My eyes, my heart, proclaimed me still a boy; 
W^iile thus our souls with early passions swell, I The glittering scene, the fluttering groups 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; j around, [found; 

Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, (Were quite forgotten when my friend was 



And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall. 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall: 



The smiles of beauty — (for, alas! I've known 

What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty 

throne)- 



There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name 1 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles 
Secures its owner's academic fame; 1 were dear, [near; 

Here minglingviewthc names of sireandson — Could hardly charm me when that friend was 



The one long graved, the other just begun: 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; 
Perhai)s their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 



, My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
I The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 

I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
!I saw and join'd again the joyous throng: 

]*anting, again I traced her lofty grove, 



Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave' And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 



-i8o7. 



HOURS OP IDLENESS, 



35 



Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
INIade, by a parent's early loss, my own? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
'What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise. 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem; 
W^hile still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice; 
I hear again — but, ah! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, midst of crowds, I fain would stray. 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way. 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths en- 
twine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine: 
What then remains? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends. 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no 

praise : 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the 

more. [done. 

Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were 
Together we impell'd the flying ball; [one: 
Together waited in our tutor's hall; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil; 
Or, |)lunging from the green declining shore, 



Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! 
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; 
Forever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: 
High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending 

blow; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering 

hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand : 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay? 
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus! on me thy claims are justly great: 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind. 
What may we hope from genius thus refined! 
When time at length matures thy growing 

years. 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
With honor's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung: 
What though one sad dissension bade us 

part? 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound. 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I'll think we are so 

still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold: 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802— 



Nor seek for glory in the tented field; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit: 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile. 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make that breast with indignation 
burn, [spurn. 

And all the glittering snares to tempt thee 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore; 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand. 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing 

scene. 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career. 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: 
As speakers, each supports an equal name,* 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame: 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, 
Yet candor's self compels me now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes forever dear. 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest 

tear! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song. 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng; 
Or when my first harangue received applause. 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul possest. 
While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast ! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone [own. 
The praise is due, who made that fame my 
Oh! could I soar a])ove these feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early days, 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme might 

live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 

* This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the * " VAmitU est I* Amour sans ailes ' 
school where the author was educated. proverb. 



His honor'd name requires no vain display: 
By every son of grateful Ida blest, 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast: 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Noj closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain : 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 
I Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
I This parting song, the dearest and the last; 
And brood in secret o'er these hours of joy. 
To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone: 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, [mine. 
And chase the phantom of what once was 

Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside. 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along. 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests 

whirl'd, 
Are swept forever from this busy world; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth; 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son. 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys). 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view 
As those where Youth her garland twined for 
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age [you? 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth. 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth; 
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf. 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle 

threw, 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu; 
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn; 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of 

Truth, [youth.*' 

And Love, without his pinion, smiled on 

is a French^ 



— iSoy. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



n 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 

ENTITLED ** THE COMMON LOT."* 

Montgomery! true, the common lot 
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; 

Yet some shall never be forgot, 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 

** Unknow^n the region of his birth," 
The hero rolls the tide of war;f 

Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or woe, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all: 

Their glory will not sleep the same; 
That will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty^s eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death : 

The fair, the brave, the good must die. 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives. 
Still beaming through the lover's strain; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives: 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away. 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; 

Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose. 

Collected in the silent tomb : 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds consume. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day. 
Yet falls at length a useless fane; 

To ruin's ruthless pangs a prey. 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

W^hat, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard; 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 



Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 

TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE 
velvet band WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES. 

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair. 
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care. 
Like relics left of saints above. 

Oh! I will wear it next my heart; 

'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee : 
From me again 'twill ne'er depart. 

But mingle in the grave with me. 

The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss: 

This will recall each youthful scene. 
E'en when our lives are on the wane; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 
In gently waving ringlet curl'd. 

By the dear head on which you grew, 
I would not lose you for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adorn 

The polish'd brow where once you shone, 

Like rays which gild a cloudless morn. 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 



* Written by James Montgomery, author of *' The 
Wanderer in Switzerland,^' &c. 

t No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits 
of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in 
more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick 
the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are 
femiliar to every historical reader ; but the exact places 
of their birth are known to a very small proportion of 
their admirers. 



LINES 



ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON 
HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE 
WITH SOCIETY. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with man- 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise; [kind; 

But retirement accords with the tone of my 
I will not descend to a world I despise, [mind : 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
x\mbition might prompt me at once to go 
forth; 
When infancy's years of probation expire. 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my 
birth. 

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd. 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess: 

At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, [repress. 
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can 



IIOi'KS OF IDLENESS, 



i8oa 



\)h! thus the desire in my bosom for fame, |hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, 
Bidsmelivebuttohopeforposterity'spraise. and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is 
Could I soar with the phcenix on pinions of Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow 
flame, .house. He looks down from eddying tem- 

pests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and 
hovers on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war 



^Vith him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death. 

What censure, what danger, what woe 

would I brave! [breath: 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their 

grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her 

rules? 

Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of 

fools? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
^ly passion the matrons of prudence reprove; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet 
deceive. 

To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an hour. 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown : 

To me what is title? — the phantom of power; 
To me what is fashion? — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul; 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: 
Then why should I live in a hateful control? 

W^hy waste upon folly the days of my youth? 



REMEMBRANCE. 
'Tis done! — I saw it in my dreams; 
No more with hope the future beams; 

My days of happiness are few : 
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
My dawn of life is overcast: 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! 

Would I could add Remembrance too! 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.* 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. 

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells 
on their remembrance through the mist of 
time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny 
hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trem- 
bling hand. ** Not thus feebly did I raise the 
steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of 
heroes. But their fame rises on the harp; 
their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they 



* This story, though considerably varied in the catas- 
troy)hc, is tnkcn from Nisiis anri Kuryaius^ of which 
cpitucic a translation is already given. 



to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked 
in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his 
angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; 
soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they 
streamed like the meteor of the night. No 
maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark -haired 
Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their 
swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of 
Orla: — gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the 
blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his 
might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. 
Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts 
throng on the green hills. They come to the 
aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the 
armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through 
the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their 
dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in 
thought, and P'ingal flies. Not so the host of 
Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were 
in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they 
stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm 
of the king. Age withered not his powers. 
*' Sons of Morven," said the hero, *< to-mor- 
row we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, 
the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of 
Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who 
will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and 
call the chief to arms? The path is by the 
swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They 
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! 
Who will arise?" 

** Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said 
dark-haired Orla, <* and mine alone. What is 
death to me ? I love the sleep of the mighty, 
but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin 
dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I 
fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by 
the stream of Lubar." — ** And shalt thou fall 
alone?" said fair -haired Calmar. *< Wilt 
thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona ! 
not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I sec 
thee die, and not lift the spear ? No, Orla ! 
ours has been the chase of the roe-buck, and 
the feast of shells; ours be the path of dan- 



-1807. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



39 



ger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours chiefs bound on the plain. *'Fly! Calmar, 
be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lu-|fly!" said dark-haired Orla. '* Mathon is 
bar." *' Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, mine. I shall die in joy; but Lochlin crowds 
** why should thy yellow locks be darkened around. Fly through the shade of night!" 
in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; 
father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in 
in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads his blood. He rolls-by the side of the blaz- 
the feast for her son in Morven. She listens ing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath 
to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: 
thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes 
say, * Calmar has fallen by the steel of Loch- through the wound, and foams on the spear 
lin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean 
dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the 
eyes of Mora ? Why should her voice curse J men of Lochlin on th-e chiefs. As, breaking 
Orla, the destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar! the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of 
live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge; the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the 
me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song 'scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms 
of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the I came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his 
song of death to Orla, from the voice of Cal-| shield; his sons throng around; the people 
mar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of' pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. 
praise." ** Orla," said the son of Mora, lOssian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the 
** could I raise the song of death to my|Spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on 
friend ? Could I give his fame to the winds ?|the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! 
No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and 'many are the widows of Lochlin! Morven 
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our prevails in its strength. 



souls shall hear the song together. One cloud 
shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle 
the names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their 
steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying 
blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. 
The northern star points the path to Tara. 
Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
Here the troops are mixed; they frown in 
sleep ; their shields beneath their heads. 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. 
The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. 



Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe 
is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they 
lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their 
locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks 
scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast 
of a chief ? Bright as the gold of the stranger, 
they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 
'Tis Calmar; he lies on the bosom of Orla. 
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the 
look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; 
but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death 



All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; 
above. Lightly wheel the heroes through 'but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. 
the slumbering band. Half the journey is I <* Rise," said the king, <'rise, sonof Mora: 
past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, ''tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes, 
meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Mor- 
glistens through the shade. His spear is raised I ven." 

on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,j *< Nevermore shall Calmar chase the deer 
chief of Oithona ?" said fair-haired Calmar; ' of Morven with Orla," said the hero. *« W^hat 
" we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time were the chase to me alone ? Who shall 
for delay ?" ** It is a time for vengeance," share the spoils of battle with Calmar ? Orla 
said Orla of the gloomy brow. *' Mathon of is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet 
Lochlin sleeps! seest thou his spear? Its soft to me as the dew of morn It glared on 
point is dim with the gore of my father. The| others in lightning: to me a silver beam of 
blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; 
shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No! , let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure 
he shall feel his wound; my fame shall not 'from blood; but it could not save Orla. Lay 
soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, 'me with my friend. Raise the song when I 
rise! The son of Conna calls; thy life is his; am dark!" 

rise to combat." Mathun starts from sleep; They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four 
but did he rise alone? No; the gathering grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Cal- 



40 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



1802 — 



mar. When Swaian was bound, our sails rose 
on the blue waves. The winds gave our 
barks to Morven : — the bards raised the song. 
<* What form rises on the roar of clouds? 
Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams 
of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 
'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was 
unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! 
thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! 
Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; 
but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in 
thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around 
its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It dwells 
on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes 
on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the 
arch of the rainbow; and smile through the 
tears of the storm." 



L^AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 
Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled? 
Days of delight may still be mine; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth. 
One firm record, one lasting truth, 

Celestial consolation brings; 
^ear it, ye breezes, to the seat. 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

*< Friendship is Love without his wings! " 

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 

W^hat moments have been mine! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears. 

Now bright in rays divine; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings; 
Friendship! that thought is all thine own. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

** Friendship is Love without his wings! " 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale. 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave. 

Which tells the common tale; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move. 
My silent tears too plainly prove 

** Friendship is Love without his wings! '* 

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 

But these are now decay'd; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 



No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away! delusive power. 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; 
Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 

Seat of my youth! thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy very path delights me still. 

Each flower a double fragrance flings; 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

** Friendship is Love without his wings! " 

My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? 

Thy falling tears restrain; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 'twill wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet. 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

*< Friendship is Love without his wings J *' 

In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn, 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings, 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings! 

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope; 
Your worth a lasting love insures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings; 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

** Friendship is Love without his wings! '* 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song; 
Friendship and truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies. 
Me the enchantress ever flies. 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings. 
Simple and young, I dare not feign; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

** Friendship is Love without his wings! ** 



->-iSo7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



41 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 

Father of Light, on thee I call! 

Thou seest my soul is dark within; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own: 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let superstition hail the pile, ^^ 

Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 

Thy temple is the face of day; 

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. 

Shall man condemn his race to hell. 
Unless they bend in pompous form? 

Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
Must perish in the mingling storm? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies. 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies. 

Or doctrines less severe inspire? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground. 

Their great Creator's purpose know? 

Shall those who live for self alone, 
W^hose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
And live beyond the bounds of Time? 

Father! no prophet's laws I seek — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear; 

I own myself corrupt and weak. 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of aether's space; 

Who calms the elemental war. 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here. 

Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence. 

Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere. 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to thee I call! 
Whatever weal or woe betide. 



By thy command I rise or fall, 
In thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust's restored, 
My soul shall float on airy wing. 

How shall thy glorious name adored 
Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bed. 

While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain. 
Grateful for all thy mercies past. 

And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring life may fly at last. 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. 

" Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico." — HoR. 
Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been, 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm. 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform. 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow. 
Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again; 
Or if, in melancholy mood. 
Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before. 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion. 
Age will not every hope destroy. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring: 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell. 
And hearts with early rapture swell; 
If frowning Age, with cold control. 
Confines the current of the soul. 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 



42 



J/OUA'S OF IDLENESS. 



And bids me feel for self alone; 
Oh! may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted heedless flow, 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 
I'll think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre; 
But now without a theme to choose, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
ISIy youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; 

E — is a wife, and C — a mother. 
And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary's given to another; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me. 

Can now no more my love recall: 
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee; 

For Cora's eye wdll shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays. 
And every lady's eye's a sun. 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her 
Whose sun displays a general summer! 
Thus faint is every former flame, 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low. 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 

Now quenches all their sparks in night; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a l^oy and girl remembers. 
While all the force of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, 
And clouds obscure the watery moon. 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse; 
For why should 1 the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before? 



Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
Flas thrice retraced her path of light. 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend. 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat. 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; 
And then with those our childhood knew 
We'll mingle in the festive crew; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away; 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower. 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



TO A LADY. 
Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine, 

As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
These follies had not then been mine. 

For then my peace had not been broken. 

To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving: 

They know my sins, but do not know 

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 
And all its rising fires could smother; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another; 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 
And spoil the blisses that await him; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy. 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah! since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any; 

But what it sought in thee alone. 
Attempts, alas! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, 

But pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures, 

These varied loves, these matrons' fears, 
These thoughtless strains to passion's mea- 
sures — 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; — 
This cheek, now pale from early riot. 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd. 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet. 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 



\ 



-i8o7. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



43 



And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys: 

To think would drive my soul to madness; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal 
In spite of every vain endeavor — 

And fiends might pity what I feel — 
To know that thou art lost forever. 



And I will fly the midnight crew, 
Where boisterous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman! thou. 

My hope, my comforter, my all! 
How cold must be my bosom now. 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 



I WOULD I 



WERE 
CHILD. 
I WOULD I were a careless child, 
. Still dwelling in my Highland cave. 
Or roaming through the dusky wild. 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride* 

Accords not with the free-born soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune! take back these cultured lands. 

Take back this name of splendid sound I 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me among the rocks I love. 

Which sound to ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this — again to rove [fore. 

Through scenes my youth hath known be- 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er designed for me: 
Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss! 
Truth! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone; 

Had friends — my early friends are fledj: 
How cheerless feels the heart alone, 

When all its former hopes are dead! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull! to hear the voice of those 



Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 
CARELESS' ■'" ^^^^ ^^ shun, not hate mankind; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

W^hose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away and be at rest.* 



WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH- 
LANDER. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the 

dark heath, [of snow,-j- 

And climb'd thy steep summit, O Morven, 

To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd be- 

Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, [low,:]: 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy 

grew. 

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred 

in you? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the 
name, [child? 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a 
But still I perceive an emotion the same [wild : 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
iAnd few were my wants, for my wishes were 
! bless'd; [was with you. 

i And pure were my thoughts, for my soul 



* "And I said, Oh, that I had wings like a dove ! for 

then would I fly away and be at rest." — Psaim Iv. 6. 

This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful 

anthem in our language. 

P i t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. " Gor- 

[power, J jjjal of snow" is an expression frequently to be found in 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth orjOssian. 

Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 



Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelings still the same 



k 



* ;■ ;sv:nach, or Saxon, 
eitlier ^ovv;ani or English. 



X This will not appear extraordinary to those who 
have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no 
means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, 
Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and 
the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally 
1 accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally 
Gaelic word, signifying looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its 
i eflfects. 



44 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1802- 



I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my 
guide, [along:! 

From mountain to mountain I bounded} 
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,*! 
And heard at a distance the Highlander's 
song: 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to 
my view; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 
For the first of my prayers was a blessing 
on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; 
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no 
more; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
And delight but in days I have witnessed 
before : 
Ah I splendor has raised but embitter'd my lot; 
More dear were the scenes which my in- 
fancy knew: [are not forgot; 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they 
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with 
you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to 

the sky, [leen,*)- 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colb- 

When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude 

scene: [hold, 

When, haply, some light-waving locks I be- 
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 

I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 
The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains 
once more [snow: 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as 
before. 
Will Mary be there to receive me? — ah, no! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was 
bred ! 
Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head — 
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but 
with you? 



TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each 
other, [ingt a.re true; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleet- 



* "Breasting the lofty surge.'* — Shakspeare. The 
Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, 
and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen 

t Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the High- 
lands, not far from the ruins of Dec Castle. 



The love which you felt was the love of a 
brother, 
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

But friendship can vary her gentle dominion; 
The attachment of years in a moment ex- 
pires; [pinion, 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving 
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable 
fires. 

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida to- 
gether, [allow: 
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I 
In the spring of our life, how serene is the 
weather! [now. 
But winter's rude tempests are gathering 

No more with affection shall memory blend- 
ing, 
The wonted delights of our childhood re- 
trace: [unbending, 
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is 
And what would be justice appears a dis- 
grace. 

However, dear George, for I still must esteem 
you; 
The few whom I love I can never upbraid : 
The chance which is lost may in future re- 
deem you, [made. 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have 

I will not complain, and though chill'd is 
affection. 
With me no corroding resentment shall 
live : 
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 
That both may be wrong, and that both 
should forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my hea^t, my 
existence, [own; 

If danger demanded, were wholly your 
You knew me unalter'd by years or by dis- 
tance. 
Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retrospec- 
tion! 
The bond of affection no longer endures; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recol- 
lection, [yours. 
And sigh for the friena who was formerly 

For the present we part — I will hope not for- 
ever; 
For time and regret will restore you at last: 
To forget our dissension we both should en- 
deavor, 
I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



—1807. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



45 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor, et can comitis ne abscedat im^go." 

Val. Flac. 

Friend of my youth! when young we roved, 
Like striplings, mutually beloved. 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known, 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again. 

And sigh again^ adieu! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever: 
The measure of our youth is full. 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull. 

And we may meet — ah! never! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise. 

Together join'd in vain; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 

And both shall quit th« shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different channels: 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts. 

And shine in fashion's annals: 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of reason; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard!* 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard. 

That he, who sang before all — 
He who the lore of love expanded — 



♦ Little was a nom deplume of Tom Move's. 



By dire reviewers should be branded 
As void of wit and moral.* 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Thy soothing lays may still be read. 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 

Bad rhymes and those who write them; 
And though myself may be the next 
By criticism to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.-|- 
Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner; 
He who offends at pert nineteen. 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now, Clare, I must return to you; 
And, sure, apologies are due: 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state; — 

May regal smiles attend you! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you! 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way! 

May no delights decoy! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 

Your tears be tears of joy! 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless. 

And virtues crown your brow; 
Be still as you were wont to be. 



* These lines were written soon after the appearance 
of a severe critique in a northern review on a new pub- 
lication of the British Anacreon. 

t Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and 
Jeffrey at Chalk Farm. (Edit.) 



46 



O CCASIONAL PIE CES. 



1807 



Spotless as you've been known to me, — 
Be siill as you are now. 

And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear, 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd waive at once a poet's fame. 

To prove a prophet here. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM 
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. 

SrOT of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance de- 
plore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before; 
Oh I as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. 
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs 

Hay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs re- 
cline. 
But ah! without the thoughts which then were 

mine : 
IIow^ do thy branches, moaning to the blast. 
Invite the bosom to recall the past. 



And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
*' Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last 
farewell! " 

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd 

breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying 

hour, — 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her 

power, — 
To know some humble grave, some narrow cell. 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. 
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet 

to die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose; 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; 
Forever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood 

play'd; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps 

moved; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youth- 
ful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged 

here; 
Deplored by those in early days allied. 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



FROM 1807 TO 1824. 



ON REVISITING HARROW.* 
Here once engaged the stranger's view. 

Young Friendship's record simply traced; 
Few were her words, but yet, though few, 

Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut — but not erased, 
Tlie characters were still so plain, 

That friendship once return'd and gazed — 
Till Memory hail'd the words again. 



* Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the 
author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, 
with a few additional words, as a memorial. After- 
wards, on receivini? some real or imagined injury, the 
author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. 
On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these 
stanzas. 



Repentance placed them as before; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more. 

That friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the record now have been; 

But ah! in spite of Hope's endeavor, 
Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line forever. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS OF 
SOUTHWELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of South- 
well, [well: 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth 



—1824. 



O CCASIONAL PIE CES. 



47 



He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
He could carry no more — so was carried 2X last ; 
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
He could not carry off — so he's now carri-on. 



THE ADIEU. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE 
AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 

Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes. 
Partners of former bliss or woes; 

No more through Ida's paths we stray; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 

Unconscious of the day. 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye spires of Granta's vale. 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns. 

And Melancholy pale. 
Ye comrades of the jovial hour. 
Ye tenants of the classic bower. 

On Cama's verdant margin placed. 
Adieu! while memory still is mine, 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, the regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave. 

To seek a Sotheron home! 

Hall of my Sires! a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall. 
And former glories of thy Hall, 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
And sometimes, on ^olian wings. 

In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here. 
Adieu! you are not now forgot. 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet! along whose rippling surge 



My youthful limbs were wont to urge. 

At noontide heat, their pliant course; 
Plunging with ardor from the shore. 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 
Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene, 

Still nearest to my breast? 
Rocks rise and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest; 
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream. 

To me in smiles display'd; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay. 

Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou, my Friend ! whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords. 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot; 

Let Pride alone condemn ! 

All, all is dark and cheerless now! 

No smile of Love's deceit 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow. 

Can bid Life's pulses beat: 
Not e'en the hope of future fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head: 
Mine is a short, inglorious race, — 
To humble in the dust my face. 

And mingle with the dead. 

Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; 

On him who gains thy praise. 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze; 
But me she beckons from the earth. 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream : 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay. 
Where once my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay. 
The meed of Pity will be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 

By nightly skies, and storms alone; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 



48 



O CCASIONAL PIE CES, 



1807— 



Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown. 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; 

To Him address thy trembling prayer: 
He, who is merciful and just. 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light! to Thee I call; 

My soul is dark within: 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star. 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky. 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive: 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been 

grievous; [could save you : 

I thought from my wrath no atonement 

But woman is made to command and deceive 

us — [you . 

I look'd in your face and I almost forgave 

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect 

you, [long; 

Yet thought that a day's separation was 

When we met, I determined again to suspect 

you — [was wrong. 

Your smile soon convinced me suspicion 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation. 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain 
you: 
I saw you — my anger became admiration; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope's to 
regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the con- 
tention! 
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissen- 
sion, [adore you! 
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to 



Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which 

alone 

Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'er- 

thrown, [again. 

Till smiles should restore me to rapture 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
The rage of the tempest united must weather; 

My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates 

have decreed 

Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; 

Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, 

'His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh, say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have 
decreed [to dissever; 

The heart which adores you should wish 
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones in- 
deed, — [ever. 
To bear me from love and from beauty for 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears; 

Why thus destroy thine own repose 
And dig the source of future tears? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say: 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
The words man utters to deceive? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost. 
If thou canst venture to believe. 

While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil? 

These tales in secret silence hush. 
Nor make thyself the public gaze: 

What modest maid without a blush 

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes. 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit? 

For she who takes a soft delight 

These amorous nothings in revealing. 

Must credit all we say or write. 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign! 

No jealousy bids me reprove: 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 



—1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



4^ 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET 

BEGINNING ** * SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 
*AND YET NO TEAR.'" 

Thy verse is **sad" enough, no doubt: 
A devilish deal more sad than witty! 

Why we should weep I can't find out, 
Unless for ihee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more; 

And much, alas! I think he needs it; 
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic. 
May once be read — but never after: 

Yet their effect's by no means tragic. 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 

V>\\\. would you make our bosoms bleed. 
And of no common pang complain — 

If you would make us weep indeed, 
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through in- 
fancy's days, [should part, 
Young offspring of fancy, 'tis time we 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. 
The coldest effusion which springs from my 
heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no mo«e. 
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee 
to sing; [to soar, 

The feelings of childhood which taught thee 
, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing 

Lyre, 

Yet even these themes are departed forever; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream 

could inspire. 

My visions are flown, to return, — alas ! never. 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens 
the bowl. 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong! 
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my 
soul, 
W^hat magic of fancy can lengthen my song? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. 

Of kisses and smiles which they now must 

resign? [flown? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are 

Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be 

mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but 
to love? 
Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! 



But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 
When I scarcely can hope to behold them 
again? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers 
have done, [Sires? 

And raise my loud harp to the fame of my 
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 

For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! 

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the 

blast — [o'er; 

'Tis hush'd and my feeble endeavors are 

And those who have heard it will pardon the 

past, [vibrate no more. 

When they know that its murmurs shall 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love are o'ercast: 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, 
the last. 

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can 

ne'er meet; [are few; 

If our songs have been languid, they surely 

Let us hope that the present at least will be 

sweet — 

The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt. 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame: 
But now his heart no more will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
Now quenches all their blaze in night. 

jThus has it been with passion's fires — 
! As many a boy and girl remembers — 
IW^hile every hope of love expires, 
I Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

jTheyfrj-/, though not a spark survive, 

Some careful hand may teach to burn; 
jThe lasty alas! can ne'er survive; 
i No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again. 

Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another. 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the 
ground, [mine: 

I h(^[)etl that thy days would I'jg longer ihau 
\ 



so 



CCASIONAL PIE CES. 



1S07 — 



That thy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's 

years, 

On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with 

pride; [tears, — 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my 

Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee 

can hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the 

power, [expire. 

But his, whose neglect may have bade thee 

Oh I hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy 
wounds gently heal : 
But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
For who could suppose that a stranger would 
feel! 

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a 
while; [run. 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the 
weeds [decay, 

That clog thy young growth, and assist thy 
For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds. 
And still may thy branches their beauty dis- 
play. 

Oil! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may 

shine, [breath. 

Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his 

grave, [shade. 

The chief who survives may recline in thy 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to 
tread. 
(Jh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot; 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the 
dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing 
prime, [lay. 

Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple 
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 

Arc lust in the hours of Eternilv's ilav. 



TO MY SON. 
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy, 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy! 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest. 

And thou hast known a stranger's breast; 

Derision sneers upon thy birth. 

And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 

Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 

A father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A father guards thy birth, my Boy! 

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace. 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run. 
At once a brother and a son; 
And all my wane of years employ 
Injustice done to thee, my Boy! 

Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me. 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy! 



FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST 
PRAYER. 
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air. 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: 

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell! — Farewell! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; 

15ut in my breast and in my brain, 
Awake the ])angs that ]:>ass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 



-1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



51 



My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 
Though grief and passion there rebel; 

I only know we loved in vain — 
I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY 
SOUL. 
Bright be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine. 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be; 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest: 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 

For why should we mourn for the blest! 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 
When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame: 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er .me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 



Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND, 
Few years have pass'd since thou and 1 

Were firmest friends, at least in name, 
And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall; 

And those who once have loved the most^ 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays, 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's. 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow? 

It boots not that, together bred. 

Our childish days were days of joy: 

My spring of life has quickly fled; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth. 

Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth; 

That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie; 

W^hen thought ere spoke is unconfined. 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years, 
W^hen Man himself is but a tool; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free? 

Can we reverse the general plan. 
Nor be what all in turn must be? 



CCASIOXAL PIE CES. 



1807^ 



No; for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been; 

Man and the world so much I hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile and pass away; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
The welcome vices kindly greet), 

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
Still simpering on with eager haste, 

As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely tastv^ 

But say, wdiat nymph will prize the flame 
W^hich seems, as marshy vapors move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind. 
For friendship every fool may share? 

In time forbear; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen; 

No more so idly pass along; 

Be something, anything, but — mean. 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 

FORMED FROM A SKULL. 
Start not — nor deem my spirit fled; 

In me behold the only skull. 
From which, unlike a living head. 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaffed like thee: 
I died: let earth my bones resign; 

Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape. 

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood : 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine; 
And when, alas! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine? 



Quaff while thou canst : another race, 

When thou and thine, like me, are sped. 

May rescue thee from earth's, embrace. 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce; 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay. 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. 
Well! thou art happy, and I feel 

That I should thus be happy too; 
For still my heart regards thy weal 

Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot: 

But let them pass — Oh! how my heart 
Would hate him if he loved thee not! 

W^hen late I saw thy favorite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it for it's mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs 

Its father in its face to see; 
But then it had its mother's eyes. 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu! I must away: 

While thou art blest I'll not repine; 

But near thee I can never stay; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 

Nor knew till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 

Vet was I calm; I knew the time A 

My breast would thrill before thy look; ^ 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was sh^ok. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 

Yet meet with no confusion there; 

One only feeling couldst thou trace. 
The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away! away! my early dream 
' Remembrance never must awake: 

' Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
i My foolish heart, be still, or break. 



i 



INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT | 
OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. i 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory but upheld by birth, 



— 1824. 



O CCASIONAL PIECES. 



53 



The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
And storied urns record who rest below; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
But the poor dog, m life the firmest friend. 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: 
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 
Debased by slavery or corrupt by pov/er, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with dis 
Degraded mass of animated dust! [gust, 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat. 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for 

shame. 
Ye! who perchance behold the simple urn. 
Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn : 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; 
I never knevr^ but one, — and here he lies. 



TO A LADY, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING 
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate, 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But wandering on through distant climes 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady! will it be with me. 

And I must view thy charms no more; 

For while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 

Escaping from temptation's snare; 

I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there. 

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. 
Remind me not, remind me not. 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
Vv'hen all my soul was given to thee; 
Hours that may never be forgot, 

Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 



Can I forget — canst thou forget. 

When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move? 
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast. 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproached, yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 

And still our glowing lips would meet. 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek. 
Veiling the azure orbs below; 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on Jinow. 

I dreamt last night our love return'd. 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not. 

Of hours which, though forever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot. 

And senseless as the mouldering stone. 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT 
NAME. 
There was a time, I need not name. 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour, when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung. 
Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine. 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flown; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew. 
When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 

Remembrance of the days that were 

Yes! my adored, but most unkind! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 



54 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



1807— 



Ves! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be, 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND \VILT TliOU WEEP WHEN I AM 
LOW? 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady! speak those words again: 
Vet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast: 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine, 

And for a while my sorrows cease. 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

O lady! blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep; 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Vet wilt thou weep when I am low? 

Sweet lady! speak those words again; 
Vet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

1 would not give that bosom pain. 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

A SONG. 

Fii.L the goblet again! for I never before 
I'cll the glow which now gladdens my heart 
to its core; [life's varied round, 

Let us drink ! — who would not? — since, through 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 
I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling 
eye; [can declare, 

I have lov'dl — who has not? — but what heart 
That pleasure existed while passion was there? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in 

its spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends! — who has not? — but what 

tongue will avow, [thou? 

!1)at friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as 



The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou 

never canst change ! [earth what appears, 
Thou grow'st old! — who does not? — but on 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with 

its years? 

Vet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. 
Should a rival bow down to your idol below. 
We are jealous! — who's not? — thou hast no 
such alloy; [enjoy. 

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past. 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; [soul. 
There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left — was she not? — but the goblet 
we kiss, [bliss. 

And care not for Hope, who are certain of 

Long life to the grape! for when summer has 

flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
We must die — who shall not? — may our sins 

be forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADV,* ON LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast. 
Loud sings on high the freshening blast; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been. 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest — 
I should not seek another zone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery; 
And I have striven, but in vain. 
Never to think of it again; 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate. 
My weary heart is desolate; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile, or welcome face; 



* Mrs, Musters, formerly Mary Chaworth. 



— 1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



55 



And ev'n in crowds am still alone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign home; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun. 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee. 
There's not an eye will weep for me; 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of what we are, and what we've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — 

But mine, alas! has stood the blow; 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be. 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see; 
And why that early love was crest. 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most: 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one, 

I've tried another's fetters too, 
With chai-ms perchance as fair to view; 
And I would fain have loved as well. 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view. 
And bless thee in my last adieu: 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep; 
llis home, his hope, his youth are gone. 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going. 

Our embargo's oif at last; 
Favorable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 



From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark! the farewell gun is fired; 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming. 
Tell us that our time's expired. 
Here's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house; 
Trunks unpacking. 
Cases cracking. 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
Ere we sail on board the Packet, 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 
We're impatient, push from shore. 
" Have a care! that case holds liquor — 
Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh, Lord!" 
** Sick, ma'am; damme, you'll be sicker 
Ere you've been an hour on board." 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling. 
Stuck together close as wax — 
Such the general noise and racket. 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we've reached her, lo! the captain. 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; 
Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
Some to grumble, some to spew. 
** Heyday! call you that a cabin? 

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square: 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbor there?" 
** Who, sir? plenty — 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill." — • 
** Did they? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us I 
Would to God they did so still: 
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! 

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Ilobhouse muttering fearful curses, 

As the hatchway down he rolls. 
Now his breakfast, now his verses. 

Vomits forth — and damns our souls, 
** Here's a stanza 
On Braganza — 

Help!" — **A couplet?" — •^^ N©, a cup 



56 



O CCASIOiVAL PIE CES. 



1807- 



Of warm water — " 

*< Whal's the matter?" 
*< Zounds! my liver's coming up: 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

Now at length we're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back. 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow. 
Still to laugh by far the best is. 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
Great and small things. 
Sick or well, at sea or shore; 
While we're quaffing, 
Let's have laughing — 
Who the devil care's for more? — 
Some good wine! and who would lack it, 
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet? 



TO FLORENCE. 
Oh Lady! when I left the shore. 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 
I hardly thought to grieve once more, 

To quit another spot on earth; 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle. 

Where panting Nature droops the head. 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albion's craggy shore. 

Divided by the dark blue main; 
A few brief rolling seasons o'er. 

Perchance I view her cliffs again: 

But wheresoe'er I now may roaiii, 

Through scorching clime and varied sea. 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on tliee: 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move. 

Whom but to see is to admire. 

And, oh! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend; 

And since thy heart I cannot share, 
I5elieve me what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? 

Nor be what man should ever be. 
The friend of Beauty in distress? 

Ah! who would think that form had });i.st 
Tlirough Danger's most destructive path, 



Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 

Lady! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose, 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame 

That glorious city still shall be; 
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim. 

As spot of thy nativity: 

And though I bid thee now farewell. 
When I behold that wondrous scene, 

Since w^here thou art I may not dwell, 
'Twill soothe to be where thou has been. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT 
MALTA. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
Some name arrests the passer-by; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone. 
May mine attract thy pensive eye! 

And when by thee that name is read. 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead. 

And think my heart is buried here. 



STANZAS 

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND 
WHILE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT FINDl S 
IN ALBANIA. 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast. 

Where Pindus' mountains rise. 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 

And lightnings, as they play. 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade! — ah, no! 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend? 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh! who in such a night will dare 
To tempt the wilderness? 



-1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



57 



And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 
Our signal of distress? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad? 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! 

Moft fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wandering through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow: 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
Thy bark hath long been gone: 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
Bow down my head alone! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread. 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped; 

Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free. 
At times, from out her latticed halls. 

Look o'er the dark blue sea; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And w^hen the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine. 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine, 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look. 

The azure grave of many a Roman; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence!* whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell). 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young; 

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times. 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes? 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy charms might raise new x\ntonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be. 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 

But would not lose thee for a world. 

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM 
IS FLOWN! 

WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever: 
We madly smile when we should groan; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter; 

And he that acts as wise men ought. 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 

SESTOS TO ABYDOS.f 
If, in the month of dark December, 
Leander, who was nightly wont 



* Mrs. Spencer Smith. 

tOn the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Cap- 
tain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant 
E^enhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes 
swam from the European shore to the Asiatic — by the 
by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more cor- 
rect. The whole distance from the place whence we 
started to our landing on the other side, including the 
length we were carried by the current, was computed 
by those on board the frigate at upwards of four Eng- 
lish miles, though the actual breadth is barely one. The 
rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row di- 
rectly across ; and it may, in some measure, be esti- 
mated from the circumstance of the whole distance be- 
ing accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and 
fi/e, an J by the other in an hour and ten minutes. Tiie 
i v; ater was extremely cold, from tiie melting of the 



58 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



1807— 



(What maid will not the tale remember?) 
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! 

If, when the wintiy tempest roar'd. 

He sped to Hero, notliing loth. 
And thus of old thy current pour'd. 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both I 

For vie^ degenerate modern wTetch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide. 
According to the doubtful story, 

To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 
And swam for love, as I for glory; 

'Twere hard to say who fared the best; 

Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague you ! 
He lost his labor, I my jest; 

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVEL- 
LERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: 

** Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nurseiy of art: 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED 

THE FOLLOWING: 
The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his 

own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, [verse. 
His name would bring more credit than his 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

ZdjTj ju.oG, <TO.<i ayano). 

Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
Give, oh give me back my heart! 



mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, 
we had made an attempt; but having ridden all the 
way from the Troad the same morning, and the water 
being of an icy chilliness, we found it necessary to post- 
pone the completion till the frigate anchored below the 
castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; en- 
tering a considerable way above the European and 
landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a 
young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and 
Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; 
but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these 
circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt 
A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have 
accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing 
that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been enter- 
tained of the truth of Leandcr's story, no traveller had 
ever endeavored to ascertain its practicability. 



Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

Tjijiti fJiOv, aas ayand.* 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each /Egean wind; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

ZiuJT] fjiov, era? dyaTTCi). 

By that lip I long to taste; 

By that zone-encircled waist; 

By all the token-flowers that tellf 

What words can never speak so well; 

By love's alternate joy and woe, 

ZiuT] /u,oO, eras ayaTro;. 

Maid of Athens! I am gone: 
Think of me, sweet! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,:^ 
Athens holds my heart and soul: 
Can I cease to love thee? No! 

Ziorj fiov, o"as ayanHj. 



TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S 
DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURI- 
PIDES. 

Oh how I wish that an embargo 

Had kept in port the good ship Argo! 

Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 

Had never pass'd the Azure rocks; 

But now I fear her trip will be a 

Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, Sec, <Scc. 



MY EPITAPH. 

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove; 
But Romanelli was so stout. 
He beat all three — and d/ew it ouL 



* Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, 
I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I sup- 
pose they could not; and if I do not, 1 may affront the 
ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of 
the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. 
It means, '* My life, I love you !" which sounds very 
prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in 
Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells us, the two first 
words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic 
expressions were all Hellenizcd. 

t In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, 
lest they should scribble assignations), flowers, cinders, 
pebbles, &c., convey the sentiments of the parties, by 
that universal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A 
cinder says, " I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied 
with hair, "Take me and fly ;" but a pobble declares 
— what nothing else can. 

t CuDStantinople. 



—1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



59 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPrfAPH. I 

Kind Reader ! take your choice to cry or laugh ; 
Here Harold lies — but where's his Epitaph? 
If such you seek, try Westminster and view j 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. | 

Athens, i 



I 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A 
PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true: 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

]My Memory immortal grew. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS 
GREEK WAR SONG. 

Sons of the Greeks, arise! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 
Sons of Greeks! let us ^o 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising. 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Vour sleep, oh, join with me! 
And the seven-hill'd city seeking, -j- 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally! 



Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song. 
Who saved ye once from falling. 

The terrible! the strong! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylee, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC 
SONG, 

' MTrefto /u-eg Vcr' Tre'ptjSdAf 
'flpaioTarrj XarjS^," &C.* 

I ENTER thy garden of roses. 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes. 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue. 
Which utters its song to adore thee. 

Yet trembles for what it has sung; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature. 

Shines the sOul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful. 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. 

Will deeply embitter the bowl; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save: 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before. 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. 
Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me 
cherish. 

For torture repay me too well? 



attl^t f^rf v'^^i^.^nLl^ ^rin^'^^'TV^P^"t '" '^^ * The song from which this is taken is a great favorite 
attempt to revolutionize ureece. 1 his translation is as ,„;«.v. *u^ „^.fL ;_io ^r a ..u r n 1 'lu • 

literal as the author could make it in verse. It is of the i Zf" f^ ^^^^^^ ^ i f'J'^'^^' V^T"" "'^" 

same measure as that of the original. 1 ^' °^s»"gf g .»^^ V verses m rotation, the whole num- 

yj IS"****- bcr present jommgm the chorus. The air is plamuve 

t Constantinople. | and pretty. 



6o 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



tSo'j- 



Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Ilaidee! 
There Flora all withered reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING. 
TiiK kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 

An equal love may see: 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone; 
Nor one memorial for a breast 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak; 
Oh! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak? 

By day or night, in weal or woe. 

That heart, no longer free. 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH 
WAS BROKEN. 
Ill-fated Heart! and can it be. 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? 
Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employed in vain? 

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part. 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of /its own. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* 
Wep:p, daughter of a royal line, 

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; 
Ah! happy if each tear of thine 

Could wash a father's fault away! 

Wee|) — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles; 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 

FROM THE TURKISH. 

The chain I gave was fair to view. 
The lute I added sweet in sound; 

* The Princess Charlotte. (Edit.) 



The heart that offered both was true. 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell. 
Thy truth in absence to divine; 

And they have done their duty well — 
Alas! they could not teach thee thine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch; 

That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shivered in his grasp. 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



EPITAPH FOR JOSEPPI BLACKETT, 
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER. 

Stranger! behold, interr'd together. 

The sotcls of learning and of leather. 

Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 

You'll find his relics in a stall. 

His works were neat, and often found 

Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. 

Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 

He cannot mend the shoe he made; 

Yet is he happy in his hole, 

W^ith verse immortal as his sole. 

But still to business he held fast. 

And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 

Then who shall say so good a fellow 

W^as only '' leather and prunella?" 

For character — he did not lack it; 

And if he did, 'twere shame to *' Black it." 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! 
Adieu, sirocco, sun and sweat! 
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd! 
Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured! 
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs! 
(How surely he who mounts you swears!) 
Adieu, ye merchants often failing! 
Adieu, thou mob forever railing! 
Adieu, ye packets — without letters! 
Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters! 
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, 
That gave me fever and the spleen! 
Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs. 
Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! 



^!S24. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



6i 



Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in, 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing; 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! 

Adieu, red coats, and redder faces! 

Adieu, the supercilious air 

Of all that strut ** en militaire!" 

I go — but God knows when, or why, 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky, 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad — but in a different way. 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 
Triumphant sons of truest blue! 
While either Adriatic shore, 
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. 
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. 
Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is, 
And take my rhyme — because 'tis *' gratis." 

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter. 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter: 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine, 
With lively air, and open heart, 
And fashion's ease, without its art; 
Her hours can gaily glide along. 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now^, O Malta! since thou'st got us, 
Thou little military hothouse! 
I'll not offend with words uncivil. 
And wdsh thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only stare from out my casement, 
And ask, for what is such a place meant? 
Then, in m.y solitary nook. 
Return to scribbling, or a book. 
Or take my physic while I'm able 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label). 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, 
And bless the gods I've got a fever. 



Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must 

close [woes. 

In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of 



TO DIVES. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour [curst ! 
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds ac- 
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her 

power; 
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first. 
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn 

arose ! [thirst 

But thou wert smitten with th' unhalJow'd 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, 
OR FARCICAL OPERA. 
Good plays are scarce. 
So Moore writes farce: 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 
We knew before 
That Z^V/Z^'j- Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's little. 



EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE 

AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO 

*' BANISH CARE." 

**Oh! banish care" — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of uiine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights. 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and << banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
When present, past, and future lower. 
When all I loved is changed or gone. 
Mock w4th such taunts the woes of one, 
Whose every thought — but let them pass-^ 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou w^ouidst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold. 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear. 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above. 
Speak — speak of anything but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear. 
The tale of one who scorns a tear; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant which she bore. 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
When she and I in youth have smiled, 
As fond and faultless as her child; 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain; 
And / have acted well my part. 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave. 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave, — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 



62 



OCCASIOXAL PIECES. 



iSo;-^ 



And show'd, alas! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
\Vhen Britain's ** May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one whose deepening crimes 
Suit with the sablest of the times. 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise; 
One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside; 
One rank'd in some recording page 
^Vith the worst anarchs of the age. 
Him wilt thou know — and htowing pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause. 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. ii, 1811. 



ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING 
OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, l8l2. 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and 

mourn'd, 
^Vhose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) 
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments 

riven, [heaven; 

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning 

dome, [home, 

Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'dthe Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd vvhere once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and^^w.^ 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been: 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well I 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 



Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest 

heart. 

On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom. 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you re- 
fuse 

One tribute to revive his slumbering muse: 
With garlands deck your own Menander's 

head,* 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead! 

Dear are the days which made our annai> 
bright. 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write, 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs. 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; [glass 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, w^here imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler ofl'spring you con- 
demn. 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players 
and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise. 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend. 
All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! 
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours I 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obcy'd. 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win 

your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! 
Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. 
Still may we please — long, long \\\^y you pre- 
side. 



' Sheridan. 



-1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



63 



• for want of 



VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE 
AT H ALES-OWEN, IN WARWICK- 
SHIRE. 
When Dryden's fool,* ** unknowing what he 

sought," 
His hours in whistling spent, 

thought,'' 
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence 
Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's 

powers. 
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, 

see 
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy 
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! 
When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall. 
The filth they leave still points out where they 

crawl. 



REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER 
THEE! 

Remember thee! remember thee! 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream. 
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee. 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream! 

Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not, 
Thy husband too shall think of thee : 

By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

T\iOM false to him, \ho\x fiend \.o me! 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS. 

BY DR. PLAGIARY. 

Half stolen y with acknowledgments, to be spoken in 
an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of 
the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the 
inverted commas of quotation — thus * *'. 

**When energising objects men pursue," 
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows 

who. 
** A modest monologue you here survey," 
Hiss'd from the theatre the ** other day," 
As if Sir Fretful wrote *' the slumberous" verse. 
And gave his son ** the rubbish " to rehearse. 
" Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 
Knew you the rumpus which the author raised, 
** Nor even here your smiles would be represt," 
Knew you these lines — the badness of the best. 
"Flame! fire! and flame!" (words borrow'd 

from Lucretius,) [issues! 

** Dread metaphors which open wounds " like 
*' And sleeping pangs awake — and — but 

away " 



* Sec Dryden's " Cymon and Iphigenia.' 



(Confound me if I know^ what next to say). 
** Lo, Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
And Master G — recites what Dr. Busby 

sings! — [pare," 

*' If mighty things with small we may com- 
(Translated from the grammar for the fair I) 
Dramatic *' spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of '« tar." 
*' This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,'* 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
** Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's 

story," 
And George and I will dramatise it for ye. 

** In arts and sciences our islehath shone" 
(This deep discovery is mine alone). 
** Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire " 
My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame's a liar, 
** Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore " 
With '* smiles," and 'Myres,"and *' pencils," 

and much more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Disgraces^ too! ** inseparable train!" 
** Three who have stolen their witching airs 
from Cupid " [stupid) : 

(You all know what I mean, unless you're 
** Harmonious throng" that I have kept in 
Now to produce in a ** divine sestetto^^ ! ! [petto 
'* While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
** Sustains her part " in all the *' upper " boxes! 
*' Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 
** Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and 

play " 
(For this last line George had a holiday). 

Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so say I. [boast;'* 
** But hold, you say, this self-complacent 
Is this the poem which the public lost? 
** True — true — that lowers at once our mount- 
ing pride;" 
But lo: — the papers print what you deride; 
** 'Tis ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 

A double blessing your rewards impart " — 
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 
'* Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,'' 
Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
'* W^hen in your fostering beams you bid us 
live," [you give.' 

My next subscription list shall say how much 



TO TIME. 
Time! on whose arbitrary wing 

The varying hours must flag or fly, 
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 

But drag or drive us on to die — 



64 



CCASIOXAL PIE CES. 



1807- 



Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd 
Those boons to all that know thee known ; 

Yet better I sustain thy load, 

For now 1 bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given; 

And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain: 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet ev'n that pain was some relief. 
It felt, but still forgot thy power: 

The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 

Would soon subside from swift to slow; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to woe; 

For them, however drear and dark, 
My soul was suited to thy sky; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank; a thing to count and curse. 

Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
\Vhich all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene ev'n thou canst not deform; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
\Vhen future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown. 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE 

SONG. 
All I Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt. 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh. 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
1 faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That love had arrows well I knew; 
Alas! I find them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Which love around your haunts hath set; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire. 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 



A bird of free and careless v, ing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare, 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

Who ne'er have loved, and "loved in vain. 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance. 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip and alter'd eye? 

My bird of love! my beauteous mate! 

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: 
What wretch with me would barter woe? 
My bird! relent: one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain. 
In silent anguish I sustain; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me the poison; fear not thou! 
Thou canst not murder more than now: 
I've lived to curse my natal day. 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU 
ART FICKLE. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises. 
And spurns deceiver and deceit; 

But she who not a thought disguises. 
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 

When she can change who loved so truly. 

It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 
Is doom'd to all who love or live; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow. 
We scarce our fancy can forgive. 



^-1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



65 



That cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely. 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd? 

Ah I sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming! 



OX BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
^' ORIGIN OF LOVE." 

The '' Origin of Love!"- Ah, why 
That cruel question ask of me. 

When thou may'st read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know; 

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
He'll linger long in silent woe; 

But live until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S 

POWER. 
Remember him whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved: 
Remember thou that dangerous hour. 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye. 

Too much invited to be bless'd; 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reprov'd, repress'd. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: 

I bless thy purer soul ev'n now, 
Ev'n now in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time. 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; 

W^hen thou hadst loved without a crime. 
And I been less unworthy thee! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er. 
Oh! may such trial be thy last. 

This heart, alas! perverted long. 
Itself destroy'd might thee destroy; 



To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego. 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure; 

From what ev'n here hath pass'd, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by virtue shed in vain. 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be. 
The thought that we no more may meet; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine: 

It felt not half so much to part 

As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 
When, from the heart where sorrow sits. 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high. 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow% or fills the eye; 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink: 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 

And droop within their silent cell. 

SONNETS TO GENEVRA. 
I. 
Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely 
wrought, [despair — 

Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its 
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine 
air. 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless 
thought — [care. 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly 
With such an aspect, by his colors blent, 

"When from his beauty-breathing pencil born 
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent), 

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
Such seem'st thou — but how much more ex- 
cellent! [tue scorn. 
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Vir- 



66 



O CCASI OXA L PIE CES. 



1807— 



Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from 
woe : 

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes — but, oh! 

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 

And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
For, through thy long dark lashes low depend- 

The soul of melancholy Gentleness [ing. 
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; 
At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 

I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail, since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a 
George! 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

** TU Ml CHAMAS." 

In moments to delight devoted, 

" My life!" w4th tenderest tone you cry; 

Dear words! on which my heart had doted, 
If youth could neither fade nor die. 

To death even hours like these must roll. 
Ah! then repeat those accents never; 

Or change ** my life!" into ** my soul!" 
Which, like my love, exists forever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life — Oh! change the 
word — 

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh: 
Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name. 

For, like the soul, my love can never die. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 
yEcLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; 
She makes her own face, and does not make 
her rhymes. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS 
ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT 
BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE 
COFFINS OF HENRY VIII. AND CHARLES I., 
IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king; 
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
— In him the double tyrant starts to life: 
Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE; 

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. 

The Devil return'd to hell by two. 

And he stay'd at home till five; \i'agouii 
When he dined on some homicides done in 
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew. 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — 
And bethought himself what next to do, 
** And," quoth he, *' I'll take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; 
In darkness my children take most delight. 
And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 

** And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer 
then — 

** If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men. 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again. 

And at present my purpose is speed; 
To see my manor as much as I may, [away. 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd 

** I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make me 

By driving my favorite pace: [amends. 

And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their 
race. 

<* So now for the earth to take my chance:" 
Then up to the earth sprung he; 

And making a jump from Moscow to France, 
He stepp'd across the sea. 

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 

No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say 

That he hover'd a moment upon his way. 

To look upon Leipsic plain; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair. 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing 

height. 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done lialf as well: [dead. 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the 

That it blush'd like the waves of hell! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'dhe: 
** Methinks they have here little need of meP^ 



^i824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



67 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing; 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair; [air, 

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there! 
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying: 
And the carnage begun when resistance is 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! [done, 

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day; 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the 
Row, [though! 

Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, 

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 

And seized him by the throat; 
'* Aha!" quoth he, ** what have we here? 
'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!" 
So he sat him on his box again. 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein. 

His brothel, and his beer; 
" Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here." 

The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd to ^' the room " of the Com- 
mons; 

Buthe heard, as he purposed to enter in there. 
That *' the Lords " had received a sum- 
mons; 

And he thought, as a ^^ quondam aristocrat," 

He might peep at the peers, though to hear 
them were flat; 

And he walk'd up the House so like one of 
our own, [throne. 

That they say that he stood pretty near the 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 

And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some 
size — 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; 

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; 



And he heard — which set Satan himself a 

staring — [sweaj'zng. 

A certain Chief Justice say something like 
And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, 
** I must go, [low: 

For I find we have much better manners be- 
If thus he harangues when he passes my bor- 
der, [order." 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy 

name; [the fame: 

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek 

may impart [of heart. 

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our 
peace, [terness cease? 

Were those hours — can their joy or their bit- 

W^e repent, we abjure, we will break from our 
chain, — 

We will part, we will fly to — unite it again! 

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the 
guilt! [wilt; 

Forgive me, adored one! — forsake if thou 

But the heart which is thine shall expire unde- 
based, [may'st. 

And ^nan shall not break it — whatever thou 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments 
more sweet, [feet. 

With thee by my side, than with worlds at oui- 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown. 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Tkurlov/s lines to Mr. Rogers. 

*' / lay my branch of laurel down.^'' 

Thou ** lay thy branch of laurel down! " 

Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; 
And, were it lawfully thine own. 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou? 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne: 
Were justice done to both, I trow. 

He'd have but little, and thou — none. 



68 



CCASIOXAL PIE CES. 



1807— 



** Then thus to form Apollo'' s crown.'''' 
A crown! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
\Vhen next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, 
Tliey'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, 

St)me years before your birth, to Rogers. 

*' Let every other bring his own^ 

\Vhen coals to Newcastle are carried. 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders. 
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried. 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; 
AVlien Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir. 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 
written the evening before his visit to 
mr. leigh hunt in horsemonger lane 
(;aol, may 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom 

Brown, [most brag, 

For hang me if I know of which you may 
Vour Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny 

Post Bag; 
***** 

But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge 

on [geon — 

(According to compact) the wit in the dun- 
Pray Phcjt'bus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with 

some codgers, [Rogers; 

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my 

death got, [lieathcote; 

Must put on my breeches, and wait on the 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the 

Scurra, 
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



ADDRESS 

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN RECITED AT THE 
CALEDONIAN MEETING, 1814. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where 

fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name: 
The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman 

chain, 
And battled back the llerv-crested Dane: 



Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could Command ! 
That race is gone — but still their children 

breathe, [wreath : 

And glory crowns them with redoubled 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
And, England! add their stubborn strength to 

thine. [free. 

The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee! 
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — tlie w(jild hath given him 

fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty 

led— 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse: 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze; 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose, 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form. 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm; 
While sad she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The coronach's wild requiem to the brave! 

'Tis heaven — not man — must charm away the 
woe, [flow. 

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness, for one so dear; 
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE 
PRINCE regent's RETURNING HER PICTURE 
TO MRS. MEK. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd. 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust. 
That left a likeness of the brave or just; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? 
What spread from face to face that wondering 

air? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there! 
That absence j)r<)ved his worth, — lliat absence 

fix'd 



—1824. 



O CCASIONAL PIE CES, 



69 



His memory on the longing mind, immix'd; 
And more decreed his glory to endm-e, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze. 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveli- 
ness, [less: 
Bright though they be, thine own hadrender'd 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits. 
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart. 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart; 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts. 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose; — 
A fount that only wants its living stream ! 
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien, 
The eye that gladdens, and the brow serene; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair. 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more 
than fair! [throws 

Each glance that wins us, and the life that 
A spell which will not let our looks repose. 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright. 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight; 
And those must wait till every charm is gone, 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none; — 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom'' s loveliness and thine. 



Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a 

heap, [sleep; — 

And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his 

That ** Felo de se," who, half drunk with his 

malmsey, [sea, 

Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm 

Singing ** Glory to God " in a spick and span 

stanza, [never man saw. 

The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the 

fusses, [Russes, — 

The fetes, and the gapings to get at these 

Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to 

Hetman, [great man. 

And what dignity decks the flat face of the 

I saw him last week, at two balls and a 

party, — [hearty. 

For a prince, his demeanor was rather too 

You know we are used to quite diff"erent graces. 

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter 
and brisker. 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; 
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in Ker- 
sey- [the Jersey, 
mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with 
Who lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With Majesty's presence as those she invited. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO 

THOMAS MOORE. 

** What say /.^" — not a syllable further in 

prose; [so here goes! 

I'm your man '* of all measures," dear Tom, — 
Here goes for a swim on the stream of old 

Time, [rhyme. 

On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of 
If our weight breaks them down and we sink 

in the flood, [mud, 

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable 



ELEGIAC STANZAS 

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave; 

But nations swell the funeral cry. 

And triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: 

In vain their bones unburied lie. 
All earth becomes their monument! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue: 
The present hours, the future age. 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not; 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot? 

Who would not die the death they chose? 



70 



OCCASIOXAL J'lECES. 



i8«7- 



And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
In woe, that glory cannot quell; 

And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

W^hile Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas! for them, though not for thee. 

They cannot choose but weep the more; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar! from the banquet turn. 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
I^Iany a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Grey hairs but poorly wreath with them; 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 

More than thy very diadem, 
W^here thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; 

And learn like better men to die! 

Oh! early in the balance weigh'd, 

And ever light of word and worth, 
W'hose soul expired ere youth decay'd. 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charm'd ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming : 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 



Whose breast is gently heaving. 

As an infant's sleep: 
So the spirit bows before thee. 
To listen and adore thee; 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean, 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortusex animo: quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

There's not a joy the world can give like that 
it takes away, [feeling's dull decay; 

When the glow of early thought declines in 

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 
alone, which fades so fast, [itself be past. 

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 

Then the few whose spirits float above the 
wreck of happiness [excess : 

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of 

The magnet of their course is gone, or only 
points in vain [never stretch again. 

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 
itself comes down; [its own; 

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream 

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain 
of our tears, [the ice appears. 

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 

mirth distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more 

their former hope of rest; [wreath, 

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn 

and grey beneath. 

Oh ! could I feel as I have felt — or be what I 
have been, [a vanish'd scene; 

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many 

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 
brackish though they be. 

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears 
would flow to me. 

DARKNESS. 
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream, 
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth [aii ; 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless 
jMorn came and went — and came, and brought 
1 no day, 

I And men forgot their passions in tlic dread 



^1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



71 



Of this their desolation; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: 
And they did live by watchfires — and the 

thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell. 
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, 
And men were gathered round their blazing 

homes 
To look once more into each other's face; 
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 
A fearful hope was all the world contained; 
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
'The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did 

rest [smiled; 

Theif chins upon their clenched hands and 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles wdth fuel, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
The pall of a past world; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the dust. 
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild 

birds shriek'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
And flap their useless wings; the wildest 

brutes 
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude. 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for 

food: 
And War, which for a moment was no more. 
Did glut himself again : — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was 

death 
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men [flesh; 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay. 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, [food, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies : they met beside 



The dying embers of an altar-place, 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage; they raked up, [hands 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and 

died — 
Ev'n of their mutual hideousness they died. 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was 

void. 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
wSeasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, life- 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay, [less. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they 

dropp'd. 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead; the tides were in their 

grave. 
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before; 
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no 

need 
Of aid from them — She was the Universe ! 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 

When the last sunshine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
While nature makes that melancholy pause. 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where 

Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
Who hath not shared that calm, so still and 

deep, [but weep. 

The voiceless thought which would not speak 
A holy concord, and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 
'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. 
Shed without shame, and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
When summer's day declines along the hills, 



72 



O CCASIONAL FIE CES. 



1807— 



So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, | Behold the host! delighting to deprave, 
When all of Genius which can perish dies, j Who track the steps of glory to the grave, 
A mighty spirit is eclipsed — a power [hour Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose Half to the ardor which its birth bestows, 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie. 



Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! 
The flash of Wit, the bright intelligence. 
The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun, but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 



And pile the pyramid of Calumny! 
I These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
' Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Dis- 
If the high spirit must forget to soar, [ease; 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid rage, and wrestle with Disgrace; 



But small that portion of the wondrous whole. To find in Hope but the renewed caress. 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul. The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 
W'hich all embraced, and lighten'd over all, If such may be the ills which men assail, 
To cheer, to pierce, to i)lease, or to appal. What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
From thecharm'd council to the festive board. Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling's 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord; j given [heaven. 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, \ Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from 

The praised, the proud, who made his praise Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 

their pride. I By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds 

When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan borne. 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 'Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
His was the thunder, his the avenging rod. Thoughts which have turned to thunder — 
The wrath — the delegated voice of God! scorch, and burst. 

Which shook the nations through his lips, and ^3^^ far from us and from our mimic scene 
blazed, [praised. Such things should be— if such have ever been; 

Till vanquish d senates trembled as they q^^.^ ^^ ^j^^ g^^^^l^^. ^i^h, the kinder task. 

And here, oh! here, where yet all young and To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
The gay creations of his spirit charm, [warm, To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite 
The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit, Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Which knew not what it was to intermit; ;Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield, 
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! 
bring [spring; The worthy rival of the wondrous Three, '^ 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they Whose words were sparks of Immortality! 
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
To fullness by the fiat of his thought. He was your master — emulate him here ! 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, Ye men of wit and social eloquence. 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; He was your brother — bear his ashes hence! 
A halo of the light of other days. While powers of mind almost of boundless 

W^hich still the splendor of its orb betrays. j range, 

■D ^ 1 , , . , ^ , .1 r . 1 1 1- ,. Complete in kind, as various in their change; 
^,^,^^^^^^^,1^.^^ ^^^ r^^^r^'^f^.^^^^^^Shtj^I^il^ Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth, 
Of failing W isdom yields a base delight, \^^^^ ^^^A^, Harmonist of care on Earth, 

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone isurvive within our souls— while lives our sense 



Jar in the music which was born their own, 
Still let them pause — ah! little do they know 
That what to them seemed Vice might be but 

Woe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd forever to detract or praise; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy; 
The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, 
The envious, who but breallie in others' pain — 



Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence. 
Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain. 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man. 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan! 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him wh® blazed 
The comet of a season, and I saw 



* Fox, Pitt, Burke. 



— 1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



73 



The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
With name no clearer than the names un- 
known. 
Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd, 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ? 
And thus he answer'd: '' Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; 
lie died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality, and crave 
I know not what of honor and of light, 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight, 
So soon, and so successless ? As I said. 
The Architect of all on which we tread. 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
W^hose minglings might confuse a Newton's 
thought. 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he: ** I believe the man of whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
Vv^as a most famous writer in his day, [way 
And therefore travellers step from out their 
To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 
Your honor pleases." Then most pleased I 
From out my pocket's avaricious nook [shook! 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I; for I did dwell 
Vv^ith a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye. 
On that old Sexton's natural homily, 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 



PROMETHEUS. 
Titan! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality. 

Seen in their sad reality. 
Were not as things that gods despise, 
What was thy pity's recompense? 
A silent suffering, and intense; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain. 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of woe. 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 



I And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
Until his voice is echoless. 

Titan! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will. 
Which torture where they cannot kill; 

And in the inexorable Heaven, 
: And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
iThe ruling principle of Hate, 
I Which for its pleasure doth create 
JThe things it may annihilate, 

Refused thee even the boon to die: 

The wretched gift Eternity 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 

Was but the menace which flung back 

On him the torments of thy rack; 

The fate thou didst so well foresee. 

But would not to appease him tell; 

And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 

And in his soul a vain repentance. 

And evil dread so ill dissembled 

That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
I Still in thy patient energy. 
In the endurance, and repulse 
j Of thine impenetrable Spirit, [vulse, 

Which Earth and Heaven could not con- 

A mighty lesson we inherit: 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To mortals of their fate and force; 
Like thee Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance. 
And his sad unallied existence: 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory! 



A FRAGMENT. 

Could I remount the river of my years, 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
I would not trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of wither'd 
flowers, 



74 



CCASIONAL PIE CES, 



1807— 



But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 

What is this Death? — a quiet of the heart? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all that lives alone is life to me; 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
\Vho haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest | 

With sad remembrances our hours of rest. \ 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget. 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; 
It may be both — but one day end it must, 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell? 
Or have they their own language? and a sense 
Of breathless being? — darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude? — O Earth! 
Where are the past? — and wherefore had they 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we [birth? 
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom-hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 



I W^hich of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and De 
Stael — [shore,* 

Leman! these names are worthy of thy 
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no 

more. 
Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall \byiheef 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but 
How much more. Lake of Beauty! do we feel, 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 



* Geneva, Ferney Copet, Lausanne. 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 

Which y in the A7'abic laiigziage^ is to t lie fol- 
lowing purport. 

The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Albania! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Albania's city fell; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

W^hen the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

W'oe is me, Alhama! 

And when the hollow drums of war, 
Beat the loud alarm afar. 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
One by one, and two by two. 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
'* Wherefore call on us, O King? 
What may mean this gathering?" 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

** Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow; 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Albania's hold." 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see; 
** Good King! thou art justly served, 
Ciood King! this thou hast deserved. 
Woe is inc, Alhama! 



-1824. 



O CCA SIGNAL PIE CES, 



75 



*' By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

*' And for this, O King! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement: 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

*' He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself wdth her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise. 
Because he answer'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

*' There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings:" 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead, 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The King has sent to have thee seized. 
For Albania's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
That this for thee should be the law. 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

** Cavalier, and man of worth! 
Let these words of mine go forth ! 
Let the Moorish Monarch know. 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

'' But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys; 
And if the King his land hath lost. 
Yet others may have lost the most. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

** Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
W^oe is me, Alhama! 

** I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower; 



Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her :-3,nsom cheap that day." 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

And as these things the old Moor said. 
They sever'd from the trunk his head; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
They say that Hope is happiness; 

But genuine Love must prize the past. 
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: 

They rose the first — they set the last; 

And all that Memory loves the most 
W^as once our only Hope to be, 

And all that Hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into Memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all ; 

The future cheats us from afar. 
Nor can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 
My boat is on the shore. 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me. 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me. 
Yet it still shall bear me on; 

Though a desert should surround me. 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well. 
As I gasp'd upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 
The libation I would pour 



76 



O CCASIOXAL PIE CES. 



1S07— 



Should be — Peace with thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.* 
Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong! 
As all can tell, who share, like me. 

In turn thy converse and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come. 
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh. 

And '* Memory " o'er her Druid's tomb 
Siiall weep that aught of thee can die, 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine. 

And blend, while ages roll away. 
Her name immortally with thine! 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 
L\ this beloved marble view. 

Above the works and thoughts of man. 
What Nature could, but would not^ do. 

And beauty and Canova can! 
Beyond imagination's power. 

Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
With immortality her dower. 

Behold the Hele?i of the heart ! 

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES, 

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood. 
So we, boys, we 

Will die fighting, or live free, 
And down with all kings but King Luddl 

When the web that we weave is complete. 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet. 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

Though black as his heart its hue. 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
Yet this is the dew 
Which the tree shall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd! 



VERSICLES. 

I READ the *' Cristabel;" 

Very well: 
I read the ** Missionary;" 

Pretty — very : 
I tried at '' Ilderim;" 

Ahem ! 



* Writ'cn in a blank Icuf of the " Pleasures of 
Memory." 



I read a sheet of ** Marg'ret oi Anjou; '* 

Ca?t you? 
I turn'd a page of Scott's ** Waterloo;" 

Pooh! pooh! [<* Rylstone Doe;" 
I look'd at V/ordsworth's milk-white 

Hillo! 
&c., &c., &c. 

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 
So, we'll go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath. 
And the soul wears out the breast. 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon, 

Yet we'll go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 
What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore? 
What are you doing now, 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now. 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billmg or cooing now, 

Which, Thomas Moore? 

But the Carnival's coming, 

Oh Thomas Moore! 
The Carnival's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore! 
Masking and humming. 

Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming. 

Oh Thomas Moore! 



TO MR. MURRAY. 
To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 

Have published *' Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold oft' in a hurry 

(At least, it has not been as yet); 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em. 
Without remorse, you set up ** Ilderim;" 

So mind you don't get into debt. 
Because as how, if you should fail. 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do 7tot let escape 

These rhymes to Morning J'ost or Perry, 
Which would be I'ery treacherous — T'cry^ 

And get me into buch a scrape! 



IS24. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



11 



For, firstly, I should have to sally. 
All in my little boat, against a Galley ; 

And should I chance to slay the Assyrian 
wight. 

Have next to combat with the female knight. 



EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO 
DR. POLIDORI. 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
W^hich your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery; 
Your dialogue is apt and smart: 
The play's concoction full of art; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries. 
All stab, and everybody dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see: 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible. 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir, — now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by ** Manuel," — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
And Sotheby, with his ** Orestes," 
(Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand. 
That I despair of all demand. 
I've advertised, but see my books. 
Or only watch my shopman's looks; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There's Byron too, who once did better. 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama: 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste; excuse each blunder; 
The coaches through the street so thunder! 
My room's so full — we've Gilford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 



The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but to resume; 

As I was saying, sir, the room — 

The room's so full of wits and bards, [Wards, 

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and 

And others, neither bards nor wits : 

My humble tenement admits 

All persons in the dress of gent. 

From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 

A party dines with me to-day. 
All clever men, who make their way: 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! 
Thus run our time and tongues away; — 
But, to return, sir, to your play: 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill; 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

John Murray. 
August, 181 7. 



EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 

You're in a damn'd hurry. 
To set up this ultimate Canto; 

But (if they don't rob us) 

You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you hint of. 

As ready to print off. 
No doubt you do right to commend it; 

But as yet I have writ off 

The devil a bit of 
Our <* Beppo:" — when copied, I'll send it. 

Then you've ****'s Tour, — 

No great things, to be sure, — 
You could hardly begin with a less work; 

For the pompous rascallion. 

Who don't speak Italian [work. 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess- 

You can make any loss up 
With ** Spence " and his gossip, 
A work which must surely succeed; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 



1 



7^ 



o CCasional pie CES. 



IS07— 



\Viththe new *<Fytte" of ♦* Whistlocraft," 
Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you've (General Gordon, 

Who girded his sword on, 
To serve with a Muscovite master, 

And help him to polish 

A nation so owlish. 
They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 

For the man, " poor and shrewd," 

With whom you'd conclude 
A compact without more delay. 

Perhaps some such pen is 

Still extant in Venice; 
But please, sir, to mention your pay. 

Venice, January 8, 1818. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
Wy Murray. 

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

Upon thy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
But where is thy new Magazine, 

My Murray? 

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
The works thou deemest most divine — 
The *< Art of Cookery," and mine, 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And sermons, to thy mill bring grist; 
And then thou hast the *' Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without '* the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would. 
My Murray, 
Venice, March 25, 18 18. 



OX THE BIRTH OF 
JOHN WHJTAM RIZZO HOPPNER. 

His father's sense, his mother's grace. 
In him, I hope, will always fit so; 

With — still to keep him in good case — 
The health and a])petite of Rizzo. 

February^ 18 18. 



ODE ON VENICE. 

The "Ode to Venice" was written during the period 
of Byron's residence in the " city of a hundred isles," 
in 1818. Shelley, who visited him at that period, used to 
say that all he observed of the workings of Byron's 
mind during his visit, gave him a far higher idea of its 
powers than he had ever before entertained. 

The city, the history of which is so full of romantic 
and poetic incidents, suggested also the poet's two dra- 
mas, " Marino Faliero" and the "Two Foscari." 

The lament for the lost glory of the Ocean Queen has 
happily not proved prophetic. 

•' There is no Hope for Nations,'' cannot be said of 
the ransomed Venetia, who shares the hopes, the ener- 
gies, and the future of young Italy. There was some- 
thing prosaic, and like this workaday nineteenth centu- 
ry, in the means employed for her deliverance; but 
the origin of her freedom may be traced back to the 
fields of Magenta and Solferino, red with the best blood 
of her brethren. — Edit. 

I. 
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea! 

If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee. 
What should thy sons do? — anything but 

weep: 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime. 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
Are they to those that were; and thus they 
creep, [pii^g streets. 

Crouching and crab-like, through their sap- 
Oh! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears. 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum. 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum [throng 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overbeating of the heart. 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd 

terrors, 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death. 



— 1824. 



o cCasional pie ces. 



n 



When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 

Of the cold staggering race which Death is 

winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; 
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay. 
To him appears renewal of his breath. 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak. 
And of the fresher air, which he w^ould seek: 
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps. 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round, and shadows 

busy. 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



There is no hope for nations! — Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought, or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air : 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Ev'n where their driver goads them, though 
to slaughter. [water. 

Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as 
What have they given your children in return? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
What! do not yet the red-hot plough-shares 

burn. 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime. 
Spring from a difterent theme ! Ye see and read. 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
Save the few spirits who, despite of all. 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes en- 

gender'd 
By the down -thundering of the prison -wall, 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the 

crowd, 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain 



The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they 

plough'd [grain, 

The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much 

bow'd. 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : 
Yes! the few spirits, — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, 

smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 



Glory and Empire! once upon these towers 
With Freedom — godlike Triad! how ye 
sate! [hours 

The league of mightiest nations in those 
When Venice was an envy, might abate. 
But did not quench her spirit; in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs 
knew [hate. 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship; even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests 

spread; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which in- 
cessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled. Earth may 

thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe, 
Andcall'dthe ** kingdom " ofa conquering foe. 
But knows what all — and, most of all, ive 

know — 
W^ith what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles! 



The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 
O'er the three fractions of the groaning 
globe; 

Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; 

If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 



So 



OCCAS/OXAL PIECES. 



T»o7— 



His cliainlcss mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is eunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whuse vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
(Jf Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
liequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land. 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's 

motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free dehance, 
Vet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
Above the far Atlantic! — she has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty Hag, 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
May strike to those whose red right hands 

have bought [forever. 

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still 
l^etter, though each man's life-blood w^ere a 

river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and 

chains. 
And moving as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltering: — better be 
AVhere the extinguish'd Spartans still are free. 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Ihan stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee! 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI, 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter 
had recently died shortly after her marriage; and ad- 
dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the 
veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 

Heaven made us happy; and, now, wretched 
sires, [sires, 

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth de- 
And gazing upon eitha-, both required. 
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 

Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — ex- 
pires: 
Ikit thine, within the closing grate retired. 

Eternal captive, to her (iod aspires: 
l^ut thou at least from out the jealous door. 

Which shuts between your never-meeting 

eyes, [more : 

May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once 

1 to the marble, where my daughter lies, 



Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, 
And knock, and knock, and knock — but 
none replies. 

STANZAS TO THE PO. 
River, that rollest by the ancient walls, 

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
W^alks by thy brink, and there perchance re- 

A faint and fleeting memory of me; [calls 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speeci ! 

What do I say — a mirror of my heart? [strong? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not 
forever; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! [away: 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk 

But left long w^-ecks behind, and now^ again, 
Borne on our old unchanged career, we 
move : 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main. 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet: 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall 
breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee, — I havelook'd on thee. 
Full of that thought: and from that moment, 
ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see. 
Without the inseparable sigh for her! 

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 

Will she return by whom that wave shall 

sweep? [shore. 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy 
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of 

But the distraction of a various lot, [earth. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land, 

Born far beyt^id the mountains, but his blootl 



-1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIE CES. 



8t 



Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 

By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian, were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved: 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be 
moved. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF 
LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, [and raise 
To stretch the hand from the throne's height, 
His offspring, who expired in other days 

To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 

This is to be a monarch and repress 
Envy into unutterable praise. [traits, 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such 

For who would lift a hand, except to bless? 
Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet. 
To make thyself beloved? and to be 

Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus 
Thy sovereignty would grow but more com 
plete : 

A despot thou, and yet thy people free. 
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 



EPIGRAM. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. 

If, for silver or for gold. 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half a dozen dimples. 
Then your face we might behold. 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly; 

Yet even then 'twould be d d ugly. 



STANZAS. 

Could Love forever 
Run like a river. 
And Time's endeavor 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure* 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, form'd for flying. 

Love plumes his wing; 



Then for this reason 

Let's love a season; 

But let that season be only Spring. 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted, 
And, all hopes thwarted, 

Expect to die; 
A few years older. 
Ah { how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh! 
When link'd together, 
In every weather. 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 
He'll stay forever. 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past th« Spring. 

Like chiefs of Faction, 
His life is action — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign. 
Obscures his glory, 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing. 
With banners glancing. 
His power enhancing, 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, 
Retreat destroys him, 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

Wait not, fond lover! 
Till years are over, 
And then recover 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing. 
With wrath and railing. 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing. 
Yet not quite ceasing. 
Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight; 
If once diminish'd. 
Love's reign is finish'd — 
Then part in friendship — and bid good-night. 

So shall Affection 
To recollection 
The dear connexion 

Bring back with joy: 
You had not waited 
Till, tired or hated, 
Your passions sated 



t2 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



1807— 



Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 
Leave no cold traces — 
The same fond faces 

As through the past: 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors, 
Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 

True, separations 

Ask more than patience; 

What desperations 

From such have risen! 
But yet remaining, 
What is't but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison? 
Time can but cloy love 
And use destroy love: 
The winged boy, Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You'll find it torture, 
Though sharper, shorter, 
To w&an, and not wear out your joys. 



ON MY W^EDDING-DAY. 

Here's a happy new year! but with reason 
I beg you'll permit me to say — 

Wish me ?nany returns of the season, 
But 2,% few as you please of the day. 

January 2, 1820. 



EKTAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 
With death doom'd to grapple, 

Beneath this cold slab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel, 
Now lies in the Abbey. 



EPIGRAM. 
In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 
Will. Cobbett has done well: 
You'll visit him on earth again. 
He'll visit you in hell. 

January^ 1820. 



STANZAS. 
W^HRN a man hath no freedom to fight for at 
home, 
Let him combat for that of his neighbors; 
Let him think of the glories of Gre«ce and 
of Rome, 
And get knock'd on the head for his labors. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 
And is always as noibly requited; 

Then Ijattlt: for freedom wherever you can, 
And if not shotorhang'd you'll get knighted. 



EPIGRAM. 

The world is a bundle of hay. 
Mankind are the asses who pull; 

Each tugs it a different way. 

And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and 

father. 

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 

So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather. 

And the saint patronizes her ** charity ball!" 

What matters — a heart which, though faulty, 
was feeling, 
Be driven to excesses which once could 
appal— [ing. 

That the sinner should suffer is only fair deal- 
As the saint keeps her charity back for 
'< the ball!" 



EPIGRAM 

ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING RE- 
SOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN 
CAROLINE. 

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in 

brass; 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 
They'll find where they're going much more 

than they carry. 



EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 

TO PENELOPE. 

This day, of all our days, has done 
The worst for me and you: 

'Tis just six years since we were one^ 
Kndifive since we were two. 

January 2, 182 1. 



ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. 

January 22, 182 1. 
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragg'd to threc-and-thirty. 
What have these years left to me.? 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 



MARTIAL, Lib. I., Epig. I. 

" Hie est, quern legis, ille, quem requiris, 
Tota notus in orbe Martialis," &c. 

He unto whom thou art so partial, 

Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial, 

The Epigrammatist: while living, 

Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; 



—1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



S3 



So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 
To the tunc of'* Why, how now, saucy jade ?" 
Why, how now, saucy Tom? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Remarks on Mister Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why, how now, Billy Bowles? 

Sure the priest is maudlin! [souls! 

(To the public.) How can you, d — n your 

Listen to his twaddling? 



EPIGRAMS. 
Oh, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; 
Cato died for his country, so didst thou : 
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be 
saved ! 



So Castlereagh has cut his throat! — The worst 
Of this is — that his own was not the first. 



So He kas cut his throat at last! —He! Who? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



EPITAPH. 
Posterity will ne'er survey 

A nobler grave than this: 
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh : 

Stop, traveler 



JOHN KEATS. 

Who kill'd John Keats? 
** I," says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartarly; 

'* Twas one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow ? 

** The poet-priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man), 

** Or Southey, or Barrow,'* 



THE CONQUEST. 

[This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers 
after his departure from Genoa for Greece.] 

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; 

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than 

To his unconquerable dynasty. [^ing 

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing. 

He reared his bold and brilliant throng on 
high: 



The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast. 
And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 
For Oxford and for Waldegrave 
You give much more than me you gave: 
Which is not fairly to behave. 

My Murray. 

Because if a live dog, ^tis said. 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd. 
So, \i you willy /shan't be shamm'd. 
And if you won't, you may be damn'd, 
My Murray. 



THE IRISH AVATAR. 

" And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling 
to receive the paltry rider." — Curran. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her 

grave, [the tide, 

And her ashes still float to their home o'er 

Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the 

wave, [like his — bride! 

To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved 

True, the great of her bright and brief era 

are gone, [could pause 

The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom 

For the few little years, out of centuries won, 

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept 

not her cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er 

his rags, [more, 

The castle still stands, and the senate's no 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedom - 

less crags 

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant 

stands [hearth; 

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from 

his hands, [birth. 

For the dungeon he quits is the place of his 

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the 

waves; [comes, 

Then receive him as best such an advent be- 

With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves J 



84 



CCASIOXAL PIE CES. 



1807-^ 



He comes in the promise and bloom of three- 
score, [part — 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's 
l)Ut long live the shamrock, which shadows 
him o'er! [his heart ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant 

again. 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — 

Then might freedom forgive thee this dance 

in thy chain, [the skies. 

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to 

thee now ? [clay, 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest 

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his 

brow — 

Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and 
denied. 

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued. 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall 'd, preceded, the task was 
begun — [tomb 

But Grattan sprung up like a god from the 
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one I 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; 
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle man- 
kind; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the 
glance of his mind. 

But back to our theme! Back to despots and 

slaves! [Pain! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by 

True freedom but welco7?ies^ while slavery still 

raves, [chain. 

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen 'd her 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can 
afford [hide), 

(As the bankrupt's i)rofusion his ruin would 
Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his bless- 
ings denied! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
II the idol of brass find his feet are of clay. 
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 



With what monarchs ne'er give, but as 
wolves yield their prey? 

Each brute hath its nature ; a king's is to reigii — 
To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, com- 
prised 
The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the de- 
spised! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, pro- 
claim [country convince 
His accomplishments! His ! ! ! and thy 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. 
And that ** Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest 
young prince! " 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
hymns? 

Ay! ** Build him a dwelling!" let each give 

his mite! [arisen! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath 

Let thy beggars and helots their pittance 

unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and 

prison ! 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast. 

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff 'd to the 

gorge! [last 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at 

The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd 

** George! " 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they 

groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through 

ages of woe! ' [throne, 

Let the wine flow^ around the old Bacchanal's 

Like their blood which has flow'd and which 

yet has to flow. 

But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! 

Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine 

own! [jeer? I 

A wretch never named but with curses and 

Till now, when the isle which should blusli 

for his birth, [her soil. 

Deep, deep as the gore which he slied on 

Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from 

her earth, [a smile. 

And for murder repays him with shouts and 

[WiAout one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 



I 



-^1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



85 



The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in 
doubt I 

\{ she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be 

hush'd, 

Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile 

can spring — f flush'd, 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full| 

Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how 

low [till 

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny. 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee 

below 

The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still ! 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for 

thy right. 

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 

This hand, though but feeble, would arm in 

thy fight, [still for thee ! 

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art 

not my land, [in thy sons, 

I have known noble hearts and great souls 

And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band 

Who are gone, but I weep them no longer 

as once. 

For happy are they now reposing afar — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent 

war, [fall. 

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English 

graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of 

to-day — 

Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing 

slaves [clay. 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 

Though their virtues were hunted, their 

liberties fled; 

There was something so warm and sublime in 

the core 

Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an 

hour [sore, 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though 

Which though trod like the worm will not turn 

upon power, 

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of 

Mo0re ! 

September , 1 821 



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD 
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow 
that is wrinkled? [sprinkled. 

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- 
Then away with all such from the head that is 
hoary ! [o^^^T ' 

What care I for the wreaths that can only give 

Oh Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding 

phrases, [cover 

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dis- 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love 

her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found 
thee; [round thee; 

Her glance was the best of the rays that sur- 

When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright 
in my story, 

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

N'ove7nbery 1821. 



STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR. 
Oh! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow! 
Where is my lover? where is my lover? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams dis- 
cover? 
Far — far away! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow 

lay? k 

How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the 
willow ! 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from 

breaking, 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; 
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the 
billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy — bul; to behold him ! 

Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! n./ lonely Pillow ! 



IMPROMPTU. 
Beneath Blessington's eyes 
The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil; 



86 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



1S07— 1824 



But if the new Eve 
For an apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil? 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for a verse: — the request 
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny; 

But my liippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were I now as I was, I had sung 
What Laurence has painted so well; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire. 
And the bard in my bosom is dead; 

What I loved I now merely admire, 
And my heart is as grey as my head. 

My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough; 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent 
(I hope I am not violent), 
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 
And since not even our Rogers' praise 
To common sense his thoughts could raise — 
Why would they let him print his lays? 
***** 
***** 
To me, divine Apollo, grant — O! 
Hermilda's first and second canto. 
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau; 
And thus to furnish decent lining. 
My own and others' bays I'm twining, — 
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
Bright be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb! 

May its verdure like emeralds be! 



There should not be the shadow of gloom 
In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest; 

But nor Cyprus nor yew let us see: 

For why should we mourn for the blest? 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY 
THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 

MissOLONGHi, Jan. 22, 1824. 
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
Still let me love! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor 
now^ 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood! — unto thee 
Indiff"erent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
And take thy rest. 



i 




' She ivalks in beatify, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies.'* 



Hebrew Melopies, paoe 87 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



Thb subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend the Hon. Douglas Kinnaurd for a SeUction o£ 

Hebrew Melodies. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MIN- 
STREL SWEPT. 
The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 

The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which Music hallow'd while she wept 

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 

Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 
It soften'd men of iron mould. 

It gave them virtues not their own; 
No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 

That felt not, fired not to the tone, [throne. 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more. 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, [move. 

In dreams that day's broad light cannot re- 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres! 

How sweet this very hour to die! 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity! 

It must be so: 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shines; 
With them the immortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deatMess theirs! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 
The wild gazelJe on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground : 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there. 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone! 

More blest each palm that shades those pljtins 

Than Israel's scatter'd race; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace: 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringly. 

In other lands to die; 
And where our fathers' ashes be. 

Our own may nerer lie: 



88 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's 
stream, [dream; 

Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a 

W^eep for the harp of Judah's broken shell; 

Momn — where their God hath dwelt, the god- 
less dwell! 

A.nd where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice [sweet? 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly 
voice? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest! 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave! 

ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray. 
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep-^ 
Yet there — eyen there — O God! Thy thun- 
ders sleep: 

There — where Thy finger scorch'd the tablet 
stone! [shone! 

There — where Thy shadow to Thy people 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: 
Thyself — none living see and not expire! 

Oh! in the lightning let Thy glance appear: 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's 

spear: 
How long by tyrants shall Thy land be trod? 
How long Thy temple worshipless, O God! 



' I have won the great battle for thee, 
■And my father and country are free! 

i When this blood of thy giving hath gush'dj 
I When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd. 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
Since our Country, our God — oh, my sire! 
Demand that thy daughter expire; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains beh(j]d me no more; 
If the hand that I love lay me low. 
There cannot be pain in the blow! 

And of this, O my father! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
Be the judge and the hero unbent! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN Hl£AUTY'S 
BLOOM. 
Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous toml); 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 

And the wild cypress wave in tender <;l(jom; 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the 
dead! 

Away! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress; 

Will this unteach us to complain? 

Or make one mourner weep the less? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 
My soul is dark — oh! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear. 

That sound shall charm it forth again: 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep. 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep. 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed. 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to sung. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 
I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew: 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire s blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 



HEBKEIV MELODIES. 



89 



As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul!" 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won. 

The freedom he restored! 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood thai flow'd from thee 
Disdain'd to sink beneath: 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong : 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SAUL. 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear, 

** Samuel, raise thy buried head! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 

Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing 

frame. 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came, 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

** Why is my sleep disquieted? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 
Such are mine; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me: 
Ere the coming day is done. 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day, 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 

BATTLE. 
Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or 

the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your 

path; 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from 

the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to 

meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part. 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day. 



**ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE 
PREACHER." 
Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health and youth possess'd me; 
My goblets blush'd from every vine. 

And lovely forms caress'd me: 
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendor. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover. 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart. 

Oh! who hath power of charming? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore. 

Nor music's voice can lure it; 
But there it stings forevermore 

The soul that must endure it» 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
SUFFERING CLAY. 
When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah! whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes that all survey? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul beholds. 

And all that was at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth. 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd, or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure: 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly, 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
The King was on his throne. 

The Satraps throng'd the hall : 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand: 
The fingers of a man — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook. 
And bade no more rejoice; 



All bloodless wax'd his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 

** Let the men of lore appear. 
The wisest of the earth. 

And expound the words of fear, 
Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea's seers are good. 

But here they have no skill; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore; 
But now they were not sage. 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth. 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright. 

The prophecy in view; 
He read it on that night — 

The morrow proved it true. 

*' Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom pass'd away. 
He, in the balance weighM, 

Is light and worthless clay; 
The shroud his robe of state. 

His canopy the stone; 
The Mede is at his gate! 

The Persian on his throne!" 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel. 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its power- 
less rays; 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear, but oh, how cold! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS 
THOU DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

to be, 
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee; 
It was but abjuring my creed to efface [race. 
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free! 
If the exile on earth is an outcast on high. 
Live tn in thy faith, but in mine I will «iie. 



Hm^brew melodies. 



91 



I have lost for that faith more than thou canst 
bestow, [know : 

As the God who permits thee to prosper doth 

In His hand is my heart and my hope — and 
in thine 

The land and the life which for Him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
Oh. Mariamne! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne! where art thou? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: 
Ah! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheed- 
ing. 

And is she dead? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? 
My wrath but doomed my own despair: 

The sword that smote hers o'er me waving. 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She's gone, who shared my diadem; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem. 

Whose leaves for me alone are blooming; 
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell. 

This bosom's desolation dooming; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION 

OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy 

dome, 
I beheld thee, O Sion, when render'd to Rome : 
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames 

of thy fall [wall. 

Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home. 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane. 
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made ven- 
geance in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height and beheld the 
decline [shrine. 

Of the rays from the mountain tnat shone on thy 



And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting 

away! 
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in 

its stead, [head! 

And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's 

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to 
reign; [be. 

And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may 
Our worship, O Father! is only for Thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE 

SAT DOWN AND WEPT. 
We sat down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters! 

Made Salem's high places his prey; 
And ye, O her desolate daughters! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below. 

They demanded the song, but, oh, never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right hand be wither'd forever. 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
O Salem! its sound should be free; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee: 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SEN- 

NACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 

fold, [gold; 

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars 

on the sea, [Galilee. 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is 
green, [seen : 

That host with their banners at sunset were 

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 
blown, [strown. 

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 
the blast, [pass'd; 

And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and 
chill, [grew still! 

And their hearts but once heaved, and forevw 



92 



POEMS Ox XAPOLEON, 



And there lay the steed with his nostril alii 
wide, I 

l^ut through it there roll'd not the breath ofl 
his pride; [turf, 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his 

mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
rhe lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 
wail, [Baal! 

And the idols are broke in the temple of 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 
the sword, [Lord! 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME. 

FROM JOB. 

A sri.RiT pass'd before me: I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save 

mine — 
And there it stood — all formless, but divine: 
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; 
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: 
** Is man more just than God? Is man more 

pure 
Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust I 
The moth survives you, and are ye more 

just? 
Things of a day! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!" 



POEMS ON NAPOLEON. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON. 

" Expende Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 
Invenies?" Juvenal, 5^/. x. 

" The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by die 
Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; 
his inoral virtues and military talents were loudly cele- 
brated ; and those who derived any private benefit 
from his government announced in prophetic strains the 
restoration of public felicity. * * * By this shameful 
abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very 
ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, 
till ." —Gibbon's Decline ajid Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 

'Tis done — but yesterday a King! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing: 

So abject — yet alive! 
Is this tire man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind. 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquesiion'd, — power to save, — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worshipp'd thee; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness! 



Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife* — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd! — Dark Spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

The Desolator desolate! 

The Victor overthrown! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope? 

Or dread of death alone? 



♦ "Certaminis^a«^/a*' — the expression of Attila in 
his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of 
Chalons, given in Cassiodorus, 



POEMS ON NAPOLEON. 



93 



To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He who of old would rend the oak,* 

Dream'd not of the rebound; 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 

Alone — how look'd he round! 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength. 
An equal deed has done at length, 

And darker fate has found : 
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey; 
But thou must eat thy heart away! 

The Roman, f when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart 

In savage grandeur, home : 
He dared depart, in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne. 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

The Spanip^d,}: when the lust of sway 
Had lost Its quickening spell, 

Cast crowns for rosaries away. 
An empire for a cell; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds. 
His dotage trifled well : 

Yet better had he neither known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ! 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him. 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb. 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave -behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
Nor M'ritten thus in vain — 



* Milo Crotoniensis. 

tSylla. 

X Charles V., son of Juana of Spain and Philip the 
Handsome, succeeded his grandfather Ferdinand in 
1516 ; became Emperor of Germany in 1519 ; abdicated 
in 1555* 



Thy triumphs tell of fame no more. 

Or deepen every stain: 
If thou hadst died as honor dies. 
Some new Napoleon might arise. 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay; 
Thy scales. Mortality! are just 

To all that pass away ; 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay: 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,* 

Thy still imperial bride. 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side? 
Must she, too, bend : must she, too, share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, — 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace \^ith thine all idle hand, 
In loitering mood upon the sand, 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagoguef hath now 
Transferr'd his byword to thy brow. 

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage,t 
What thoughts will there be thine. 

While brooding in thy prison'd rage, 
But one — '* The world luas mine!'* 

Unless, like he of Babylon, 

All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 
Life will not long confine 

That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 

So long obey'd — so little worth! 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,§ 
Wilt thou withstand the shock? 

And share with him, the unforgiven. 
His vulture and his rock? 

Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst. 

And that last act, though not thy worst, 



* Maria Louisa. 

t Dionysius of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept a school 
at Corinth. 

X The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

§ Prometheus, said to have stolen fire from heaven. 



94 



POEMS ON NAP OLE OX. 



The very Fiend's arch mock; 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 

And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! 

There was a day — there was an hour. 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign, 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time. 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

But thou, forsooth, must be a king, 

And don the purple vest! 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
W'here is that faded garment? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star, the string, the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say. 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

W^hen gazing on the Great, 
W^here neither guilty glory glows. 

Nor despicable state? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of W^ashington, 
To make man blush there was but one ! 

ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 
I. 

W^E do not curse thee, Waterloo! 

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew: 

There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 

Rising from each gory trunk. 

Like the waterspout from ocean, 

W^ith a strong and growing motion: 

It soars and mingles in the air, 

With that of lost Labedoyere — 

With that of him whose honor'd grave 

Contains the ** bravest of the brave." 

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows. 

But shall return to whence it rose; 

W^hen 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 

Never yet was heard such thunder [der — 

As then shall shake the world with won- 

Never yet was seen such lightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! 

Like the Wormwood star foretold 

By the sainted Seer of old, 

Showering down a fiery flood. 

Turning rivers into blood.* 



♦ See Rev. viii. 7, &c., " The first angel sounded, and 
there followed l»ail and fire mingled with biood," &c. 



II. 
The chief has fallen! but not by you. 
Vanquishers of Waterloo! 
When the soldier-citizen 
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
Save in deeds that led them on 
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 
Who, of all the despots banded, 

With that youthful chief competed? 

W^ho could boast o'er France defeated. 
Till lone Tyranny commanded? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting. 
The Hero sunk into the King? 
Then he fell: — so perish all 
Who would men by man enthrall! 

III. 

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume, 
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb,* 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name; 
Such as he of Naples wears. 
Who thy blood-bought tide bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thy war-horse through the ranks 

Like a stream which burst its banks. 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing. 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee! 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow? 
Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide. 
It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide; 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendancy — 
And, as it onward rolling rose, 
So moved his heart upon our foes, [est. 
There, where death's brief pang was quick- 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 

Who could then her wing arrest — 



Vcr. 8, " And the second angel sounded, and as it wer« 
a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea ; 
and the third part of the sea became blood," &c. Ver. 
10, " And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great 
star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell 
upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains 
of waters." Ver. 11, " And the name of tlie star is called 
Wormvjood : and the third part of the water became 
wormwood : and many men died of the waters, because 
they were made bitter." 

♦ Murat's remains arc said to have been torn from the 
grave and burnt. 



POEMS ON NAPOLEON. 



95 



Victory beaming from her breast?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain; 
There be sure was Murat charging! 

There he ne'er shall charge again ! 



0*er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice; 

But her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The ** moral lesson " dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath His heaven. 

With their breath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the 

With a fierce and lavish hand [earth; 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 



But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul's renew'd: 
Even in this lo's^ world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her forever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble. 
Tyrants shall believe — and tremble: 
Smile they at this idle threat? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



TO NAPOLEON. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,* 
Severed from thy faithful few? 

Who can tell thy warriors' grief. 
Maddening o'er that long adieu? 



• *' All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish 
officer, who had been exalted from the ranks by Bona- 
parte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter 
to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, 
•Ten in the most menial capacity, which could not be ad- 
mitted.** 



Woman's love and friendship's zeal. 
Dear as both have been to me — 

What are they to all I feel. 
With a soldier's faith for thee? 

Idol of the soldier's soul! 

First in fight, but mightiest now; 
Many could a world control; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death; and envied those who fell. 
When their dying shout was heard. 

Blessing him they served so well.* 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free! 

Oh! although in dungeons pent. 
All their chains were light to me. 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 
Were his borrow'd glories dim. 

In his native darkness share? 
Were that world this hour his own. 

All thou calmly dost resign. 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu I 

Never did I droop before; 
Never to my sovereign sue. 

As his foes I now implore: 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF *'THE LEGION OF 
HONOR." 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Star of the brave ! whose beam hath shed 
Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
Thou radiant and adored deceit. 
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet- 
Wild meteor of immortal birth; 
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth? 



♦ '* At Waterloo, one man was seen whose left arm 
was shattered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the 
other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his 
comrades, * Vive I'Empereur, jusqu'k la mort !' There 
were many other instances of the like. This, however, 
you may depend on as txxie/'-^Privair Letter /ram 
Brussels. 



96 



POEMS TO TIIYRZA. 



i8ii— 



Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze: 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honor here; 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava rolled thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space; 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue. 

Of three bright colors, each divine,* 

And fit for that celestial sign; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them. 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light: 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, O thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array; 
And soon, Goddess, may we be 
Forevermore with them or thee! 



* The tricolor. 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Farewell to the Land where the gloom of 

my glory [name — 

Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her 
She abandons me now, but the page of her 

story, [fame. 

The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd 

me only [far; 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too 
I have coped with the nations which dread me 

thus lonely, 
The last single captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem 

crown'd me, 
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth; 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I 

found thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles 

were won: 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment 

was blasted, [sun! 

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's 

Farewell to thee, France! — But when Liberty 
rallies 

Once more in thy regions, remember me then — • 

The violet still grows in the depth of thy val- 
leys; 

Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again. 

Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my 
voice — 

There are links which must break in the chain 
that has bound us, [choice! 

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy 



POEMS TO THYRZA 



1511 TO I5I2, 



TO THYRZA. 
Without a stone to mark the spot. 
And say, what truth might well 
said, 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By. many a shore and many a sea 
Divided, yet beloved in vain; 



have 



The past, the future fled to thee, 
To bid us meet — no — ne'er again! 

Could this have been — a word, a look. 
That softly said, ** We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 



-i8i2. 



POEMS TO THYRZA. 



97 



Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 

Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here 
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 

In that dread horn* ere death appear, 
When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 

Till all was past ? But when no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human woe. 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er. 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 
In these, to me, deserted towers, 

Ere call'd but for a time away, 

Aff^ection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside. 
The smile none else might understand; 

The whisper'd thoughts of hearts allied, 
The pressure of the thrilling hand; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined. 

That Love each warmer wish forbore; 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Ev'n passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 

Tne song celestial from thy voice, 

But sweet to me from none but thine; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine? — Ah! where art thou? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill. 
But never bent beneath till now! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
The cup of woe for me to drain. 

If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again. 

But if in worlds more blest than this 
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 

Impart some portion of thy bliss, 
To wean me from mine anguish here. 

Teach me, — too early taught by thee! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven: 
On earth thy love was such to me; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven. 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE ! 

Away, away, ye notes of woe! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence — for oh! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas! 
I must not think, I may not gaze, 

On what I am — on what I was. 



The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! 
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust: since dust thou art; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart. 

'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still: 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake. 

E'en slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep. 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass when heaven is veil d in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM 
FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before: 
Though every joy is fled below, 

What future grief can touch me more? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; 

Man was not form'd to live alone: 
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear. 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 

Thou'rt nothing — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart, — the heart is lonely still! 

On many a lone and lovely night 
It soothed to gaze upon the sky; 
7 



9S 



POEMS TO THYRZA. 



For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
S4ione sweetly on thy pensive eye: 

And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
When sailing o'er the .^gean wave, 

<* ifow Thyrza gazes on that moon " — 
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed. 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
** 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

** That Thyrza cannot know my pains;" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 

When love and life alike were new! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be. 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
vStill, still preserve that love unbroken. 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd. 
Time tempers love, but not removes. 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled: 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 

Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
T© weep, or wish, the coming blow; 

No maiden with dishevell'd hair. 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

Kut silent let me sink (o earth. 
With no officious mourners near: 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a tear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs. 

Might then exert its latest power 

In her who livtes, and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche, to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 



But vain the w^ish — for Beauty still 

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; 

And women's tears, produced at will. 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
W^ithout regret, without a groan; 

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

** Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 

Where all have gone, and all must go! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



AND TPIOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
AND FAIR. 

" Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 
meminisse !" 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return'd to Earth! 
Though earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not: 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou. 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow: 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours; 

The >vorst can be but mine: 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 



— 1^12. 



POEMS TO THYRZA. 



99 



The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away: 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade: 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed. 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed; 
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face. 
To hold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head; 
And show that love, however vain. 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 

Though thou hast left me free. 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF 

MEN. . 
If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade: 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore. 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile. 

Unfaithful to thy memory! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd. 

It is not drain'd to banish care; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
For wert thou vanish'd from my mind. 

Where could my vacant bosom turn? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honor thine abandon'd Urn? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil; 
Though all the world forget beside 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 
For well I know that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him but thou: 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me; 
Thou wert too like a dream of heaven 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 



DOMESTIC PIECES, 



1816. 



FARE THEE WELL. 

" Alas ! they had been friends in youth: 
But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy Hves in realms above; 
And life is thorny, and youth is vain; 
And to be wroth with one we love. 
Doth work hke madness in the brain; 
* * * * 

But never'either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cUffs which had been rent asunder. 
A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Christabel, 

Fare thee weU! and if forever, 

vStill forever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again: 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe: 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 

Vet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; 

Love may sink by low decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away: 

Still thine own its life retaineth. 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 



These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say ** Father! '* 
Though his care she must forego? 

When her little hand shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is press'd, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee. 
Think of him thy love had bless'd! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more mayst see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
All my madness none can know; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now: 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the wilL 

Fare thee well! thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 



A SKETCH. 

** Honest — ^honest lago ! 

If that thou be'st a devii, I cannot kill thee." 

Shakspeare. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; 
Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 
And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
Raised from the toilette to the table, wher* 



i8i6. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, 
The genial confidante, and general spy. 
Who could, ye gods, her next employment 
An only infant's earliest governess! [guess — 
She taught the child to read, and taught so 

well, 
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 
An adept next in penmanship she grows. 
As many a nameless slander deftly shows; 
What she had made the pupil of her art. 
None know — but that high Soul secured the 

heart, 
And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
Which Flattery fool'd not. Baseness could not 
Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil, [blind, 
Indulgence weaken, nor Example spoil, 
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown, 
Nor Genius swell, nor beauty render vain. 
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain, [bow. 

Nor Fortune change. Pride raise, nor Passion 
Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive; 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
She deems that all could be like her below : 
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme, now laid aside too long. 
The baleful Burthen of this honest song: 
Though all her former functions are no more. 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her 

quake; 
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake; 
If early habits — those false links which bind 
Ofltimes the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
Have given her power too deeply to instil 
The angry essence of her deadly will; 
If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; 
If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
And leave the venom there she did not find; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells. 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers 
with smiles — 



A thread of candor with a web of wiles: 

A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd 

scheming; 
A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal; 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel: 
I With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown; 
'a cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 
i Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
I Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 
Look on her features! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined: 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
Yet true to *< Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky. 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh! wretch without a tear — without a 

thought. 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when 

thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! 
Till all thy self- thoughts curdle into hate. 
Black — as thy will for others would create: 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
And thy soul welter in its hideous cn;.st. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the l)ed, 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast 

spread! [with prayer. 

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary llcavcn 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
Down to the dust! — and, as thou rott'staway. 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers, 
And festering in the infamy of years. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 

When all around grew drear and dark. 
And reason half withheld her ray, 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



1816. 



And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

^Yhen dreading to be deem'd too kind. 
The weak despair — the cold depart! 

^Vhen fortune changed, and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast. 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 

Oh! blest be thine unbroken light, 
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye. 

And stood between me and the night. 
Forever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came. 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame. 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine. 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, though gently bent. 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend, the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert — and still wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
Whatever fate on me may fall; 

For Heaven in sunshine will requite 
The kind — and thee the most of all. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break; 

Thy heart can feel, but will not move; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside. 

Were found and still are fixed in thee; — 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 



I Then when nature around me is smiling, 
j The last smile which answers to mine, 

I I do not believe it beguiling, 
I l>ecause it reminds me of thine; 

And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
j As the breasts I believed in with me, 
I If their billows excite an emotion, 
I It is that they bear me from thee. 

; Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
I And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me: 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn; 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 
'Tis oi thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake; 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me; 

Though parted, it was not to fly; 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
Nor the war of the many with one: 

If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

■ 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 

And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
And more than I once could foresee, 

I have found that, whatever it lost me. 
It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath per- 

Thus much I at least may recall, [ish'd. 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit oi thee. 

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 

Dearer and purer were, it should be thine; 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 

No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 

A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny — 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 



The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
j It were the haven of my hapj^iness; 
I But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
I And mine is not the wish to make them less. 



i8i6. 



DOMESTIC PIECES, 



1^3 



A sirange doom is thy father's son's, and past I 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; I 

Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore — I 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been j 

In other elements, and on the rocks I 

Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, i 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, ! 

The fault was mine; nor do 1 seek to screen '■ 

My errors with defensive paradox; i 

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, ' 

The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults,'and mine be their reward 
My whole life was a contest, since the day ' 

That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd \ 
The gift — a fate or will that walk'd astray;! 

And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 

But now I fain would for a time survive, 

If but to see what next can well arrive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old; 

And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 

Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
Something — I know not what — does still up- 

A spirit of slight patience : — not in vain, [hold 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me — or perhaps a cold despair, 

Brought on when ills habitually recur — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 

(For even to this may change of soul refer. 
And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 

Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 

The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood, trees, and flowers, and 
brooks. 

Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 

Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks; 

And even at moments I could think I see 

Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation; — to admire 

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; [spire. 

But something worthier do such scenes in- 

Here to be lonely is not desolate, 

For much I view which I could most desire. 

And, above all, a lake I can behold 

Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 



Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 

The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret; 

There may be others which I less may show : — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yiet 

I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 

And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dear l^ake. 
By the old Hall which may be mine no morek. 

Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 

Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 

Though, like all things which I have loved, they 

Resign'd forever, or divided far. [are 

The world is all before me; I but ask [ply — 
Of Nature that with which she will com- 

It is but in her summer's sun to bask. 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 

To see her gentle face without a mask. 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 

She was my early friend, and now shall be 

My sister — till I look again on thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one; 

And that I would not; — for at length I aee 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 

The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 

I had been better than I now can be; 
The passions which have torn me would have 

slept; 
/had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do? 

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew. 

And made me all which they can make — a 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue; [name. 

Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care; 

I have outlived myself by many a day. 

Having survived so many things that were. 

My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 

Of life which might have fill'd a century, 

Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

And for the remnant which may be to cowte 
I am content; and for the past I feel 

Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal: 



In4 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



1816 



And for the present, I would not benumb | 
My feelings further. — Nor shall I conceal i 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine; 

We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign; 

It is the same, together or apart, [cline 

From life's commencement to its slow de- 

\Ve are entwined; let death come slow or fast, 

The tie which bound the first endures the last! 



ENDORSEMENT TO 
THE DEED OF SEPARATION. 

IN THE APRIL OF 1816. 

A YEAR ago, you swore, fond she! 

*' To love, to honor," and so forth: 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 

And here's exactly what 'tis worth. 



THE DREAM. 



I. 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breath. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity; 
They pass like spirits of the past — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain: [will, 
They make us what we were not — what they 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? — \Vhat are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep; for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 
I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green, and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere ihe caj)e of a long ridge of such, 



Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, 
F^air as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers; 
She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words; she was his sight. 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers; 
Which color'd all his objects: — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life. 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
Which terminated all: upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. 
And his cheek change tempestuously — -his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share: 
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more; 'twas much, 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; 
Herself the solitary scion left 
Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not— 
and why? [loved 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she 
Another; even now she loved another. 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake; — he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sate him dow n, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he 
lean'd ['twere 

iliis bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 



iSi6. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



1^5 



With a convulsion — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, 
The Lady of his love re-enter'd there; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his 

heart 
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, [steps 
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way; 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung, to manhood; in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 
Himself like what he had been; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man. 
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 

V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better: — in her home 
A thousand leagues from his — her native home, 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 
The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 



What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved; 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be? — she had loved him 

not. 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved; 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The starlight of his Boyhood. As he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
And all things reel'd around him; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should 

have been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny, — came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light: 
What business had they there at such a time? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love : — oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes. 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift; 
What is it but the telescope of truth? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies. 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real! 

VIII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore 



io6 



LOME STIC PIECES, 



1816. 



The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd 
In all which was served up to him, until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch* of old days, 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived [men. 
Through that which had been death to many 
And made him friends of mountains: with the 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe [stars 
He held his dialogues; and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries; 
To him the book of Night was open'd wide. 
And voices from the deep abyss feveal'd 
A marvel and a secret. — Be it so, 

IX. 

My dream was past : it had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced 
Almost like a reality — the one [out 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



LINES 



ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ! 

And thou w^ert sick, and yet I was not near; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ! 
And is it thus? — it is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold. 

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more. 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 
I am loo well avenged! — but 'twas my right! 

• Vhate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Pleaven choose so near an instru- 
Mercy is for the merciful — if thou [ment. 



♦ Mithridates of Pontus. 



I Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of 
I sleep! — 

j Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
jFor thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend; 

But thou in safe implacability [shielded, 

Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness 

And in my love, which hath but too much 

yielded, [spare; 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not 
And thus upon the w^orld — trust in thy truth, 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built [are — 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! 
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
And hew'd down with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
Might still have risen from out the grave of 
And found a nobler duty than to part, [strife. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold. 

For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
The early truth, w^hich was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times. 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes. 
Deceit, averments incompatible. 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done! 



SATIRES. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS: 

A SATIRE. 

WRITTEN 1808. 

** I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." 

Shakspeare. 

** Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true. 
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." 

Pope. 



PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were 
to be " turned from the career of my humor by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel ; but I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without 
arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none /^rj^^vi^j/Zy, who did not commence on the offensive. An au- 
thor's works are public property : he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the 
authors I have endeavored to commemorate may do by me as I have donebj'- them. I dare say they will suc- 
ceed better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can 
write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavored in this edition to make some 
additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. 

In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles* Pope were 
written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine,* who has now in press a volume of poetry. 
In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; my only reason for this 
being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner, — a determination not to 
publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. 

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded 
to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public 
at large ; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are 
overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and witiiotit consideration. 
But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their 
mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per- 
verted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known 
and able writer had undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and in the 
absence of the regular phj'^sician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to pre- 
scribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his 
treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. 

As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author 
succeeds in merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encoun- 
ter, he will be amply satisfied. 

* Mr. Hobhouse. 



Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald, Oh! nature's noblest gift — my grey-goose 

His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, [bawl*! quill! 

And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 



Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my 
muse? [wrong: 

Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 



♦Imitation: 
' Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, 
Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri 'r"— 

Juvenal, Sat. i. 
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the 
• Small Beer Peet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on 



Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen. 
That mighty instrument of little men! 
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose. 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may de- 
ride, 



the " Literary Fund :" not content with writing, he 
spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a rea- 
sonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain 
the operation. 



io8 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



1808. 



The lover's solace and the author's pride. 
What wits, what poets, dost thou daily raise !_ 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! ^ 
Condenin'd at length to be forgotten quite, ' 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
Our task complete, like Hamet's, shall be 

free;* 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: 
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme. 
No eastern visioQ, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is 

plain: 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; [s .vay, 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime. 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every chime; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all pre- 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale : [vail. 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers. 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song: 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase. 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
1 pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme: 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame: 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from 

shame. f 
No matter, George continues still to write, | 
Though now the name is veil'd from public 

sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 



* Cid Hamet Bcnengeli promises repose to his pen in 
the last cliapter o{ Don Qtiixote. Oh that our volumi- 
nous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet 
Benengeli ! 

t This ingenious youth \^ mentioned more particularly, 
with his }j:'odncLi n, i.i anoth r ji'.ice. 

X In the Edinb.ir^Ji llaicw. 



The self-same road, but make my own review: 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to hnd or forge a fault: 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated, yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment? No: as 
Seek roses in December — ice in June; [soon 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.* 
To these young tyrants, f by themselves mis- 
placed, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as 

law — 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare, 
While such are critics, why should I forbear? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er:): 
The path that Pope and Gifford trod before: 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed: 
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
<* But hold !" exclaims a friend, *< here's some 

neglect: 

This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 

What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has 

got, [not:" — 

I And careless Dryden — " Ay, but Pye has 

i * Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Ome- 
ga, the first and the last, o( \.\\g Edinburgh Rezu'ezv: the 
others are mentioned hereafter, 
t Imitation : 

" Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique 

occurras pcritura; parcere chartac." — 

Juvenal, Sat. i. 
$ Imitation: 

" Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere campo 
Per qucm magnus equos Auruncae flexit alumnus: 
Si vacat ct placidi rationem adnittitis, edain." — 

Juvenal, Sat, \. 



i8o8. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



109 



Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith I — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they 

grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in 

vain; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly 

strong. [way'sf melt — 

Then Congreve's* scenes could cheer, or Ot- 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are 

past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complained of now. 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans. 
And printer's devils shake their weary bones; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking 

shelves, [twelves. 

And Little's:|: lyrics shine in hot-press'd 
Thus saith the preacher: ** Nought beneath 

the sun [run: 

Is new;" yet still from change to change we 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas. 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare. 
Till the swoU'n bubble bursts — and all is air!i 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, I 

Where dull pretenders grapple for the priz€ : | 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail;! 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne. 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling 

Stott.g 



Behold! in various throngs the scribbling 
For notice eager, pass in long review: [crew. 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road; 
Immeasurable measures move along; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song. 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the 
last:*— [blast; 

On half-strung harps whine mournful to the 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, f 
Decoy young border nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high. 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows 

why- 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. 



♦Dramatist; author oi Love/or Love, &c., &c. 

tA dramatist; the author oiVenice Preserved, &c., &c. 

tT. Moore, who published at first under the name of 
ITiomas Little. 

§Stott, better known in the Morning Post by the name 
of Hafiz. This person is at present the most profound 
explorer of the Imthos. I remember, when the reigning 



family left Portugal, a special ode of Master Stott's be- 
ginning thus (Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia): 

"Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," &c. 

Vise a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a 
most thundering ode, commencing as follows; 

" Oh for a lay ! loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland "s sounding shore !" 

Lord have mercy on us ! the L:iy 0/ the Last Minstrel 
was nothing to this. 

*3ee the Lay of the Last Minstrel^ passim. Never 
was any plan so incongruous and absurd as the ground- 
work of this produclion. The entrance of Thunder and 
Lightning prologuising to Bayes' Tragedy, unfortunately 
takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue be- 
tween Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fctl in the first 
canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, 
"a stark mosstrooper," videlicet, a happy compound of 
poacher, sheep-stealer and highwayman. The propriety 
of his magical lady's injunction not to read can only be 
equalled by his candid acknowledgment of his indepen- 
dence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his 
ov,n elegant phrase, " 'twas his neck-vei-se at Harribee," 
/. e. the gallows. 

tThe biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous 
pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his mas- 
ter's horse, without the aid ot seven-leagued boots, are 
chef-d'oeuvre in the improvement of taste. For inci- 
dent we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box 
on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a 
knight and charger into the castle, under the very natu- 
ral disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the 
latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine 
would have been, had he been able to read and write. 
The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, 
Murray and Miller, worshipful book-sellers, in consider- 
ation of the receipt of a sum of money; and truly, con- 
sidering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. 
If Mr. Scott will write for hire, let him do his best for his 
paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is un- 
doubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter bailad 
imitations. 



kXGLISJI BARDS AXD SCOTCH REVIKW ERS. 



1808. 



Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 

And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his 
The golden-crested Jiauglity Marmion, [roan, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight. 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit per- 
chance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Aliller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half a crown per line? 
No! when the sons of song descend to trade. 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! 
Such be their meed, such still the jusl reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long ** good-night to Marmion."* 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits 
now ; [bow ; 

These are the bards to whom the muse must 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was 

young, 
W^hen Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung. 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic 

name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. f 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth. 
Tongues have expired with those who gave 

them birth. 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labor spent; 
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise! 



* " Good-night to Marmion '* — the pathetic and also 
prophetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the 
death of honest Marmion. 

t As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story 
of the Iliad, they may almost he classed as one grand 
historical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we 
consider \.\\& Paradise Lost and Gierusalenttne Liber - 
ata as their standard efforts ; since neither the Jerusa- 
lem Conquered of the Italian, nor the Paradise Re- 
gained oi the English bard, obtained a proportionate 
celebrity to their former poems. Query : Which of Mr. 
Southey's will survive ? 



To him let Camogns, Milton, Tasso yield. 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England, and the boast of 

France! 
I Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
I Behold her statue placed in glory's niche; 
j Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,* 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son: 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome. 
Forever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Whales; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do. 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
O! Southey! Southey! cease thy varied song :f 
A bard may chant too often and too long: 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! 
A fourth, alas, w^ere more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy w^eary way; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, J 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: 
** God help thee," Southey, and thy readers 
too.g 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school. 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 

* Thalaba, Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in 
open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished 
to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 
Joan of Arc was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was 
one of those poems " which," in the words of Porson, 
"will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, 
but — not till then." 

t We beg Mr. Southey's pardon ; " Madoc disdains 
the degraded title of epic." See his preface. Why is 
epic degraded ? and Dy whom ? Certainly the late 
romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, 
and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic 
muse ; but as Mr. Southey's poem *' disdains the appel- 
lation," allow us to ask — Has he substituted anything 
better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir 
Richard Blackmore in the quantity as well as quality of 
his verse ? 

tSee The Old Woman of Berkley, a ballad by Mr. 
Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away 
by Beelzebub on a "high trotting horse." 

§The last line, "God help tlice," is an evident 
plagiarism from the " Anti-Jacobin " to Mr. Southey, on 
his Dactylics. "God help thee, silly one."— Poetry of 
the " Anti-Jacobin," page 23. 



i8oS. 



ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCO'J'CIl RKVIEIVERS. 



As soft as evening in his favorite May, 

Who warns his friend **to shake off toil and 

trouble, [double;"* 

And quit his books, for fear of growing 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of '* an idiot boy;" 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with 

day;t 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells. 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, . 
That all who view the ** idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse,:]: 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind. 
He brays the laureat of the long-ear'd tribe. 

Oh! wonder-working Lewis I monk or bard, 
W^ho fain wouldst make Parnassus a church- 
yard ! 
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy 

stand. 
By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page. 
To please the females of our modest age; 
All hail, M.P.IS from whose infernal brain 



* Lyrical Ballads^ page 4. — The Tables Turned, 
Stanza i, 

" Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 

Why all this toil and trouble ? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books. 
Or surely you'll grow double." 
t Mr. W., in his preface, labors hard to prove that 
prose and verse are much the same ; and certainly his 
precepts and practice are strictly conformable: 
" And thus to Betty's qxiestion he 

Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
The cock did crow to-whoo, to-whoo. 
And the sun did shine so cold," &c., &c. — 
Lyrical Ballads, page 129. 
X Coleridge's Poems, page 11, Songs of the Pixies, i. 
e., Devonshire fairies ; p. 42, we have Lines to a Young 
Lady : and p. 52 Lines to a Young Ass. 

§ " For every one knows little Malt's an M. P." — See 
a Poem to Mr. Lewis, in the Statesman, supposed to be 
written by Mr. Jekyll. 



Thin -sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; 
At whose command ** grim women " throng 

in crowds, 
jAnd kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With ^' small grey men," ** wild yagers," and 

what not. 
To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott; 
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to 

dwell. 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, [flush'd, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames 

are hush'd? 
'Tis Little! young Catullus of his day. 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust, [just, 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns; 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee ** mend thy line and sin no 

more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford! with thine eyes of 

blue,* 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss 

admires. 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's 

sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place. 
By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace? f 
Mend, Strangford! mend thy morals and thy 

taste; 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste ; 
Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore. 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

Behold! — ye tarts! one moment spare the 
text, 
Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next; 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays. 



* The reader who may wish for an explanation of 
this, may refer to Strangford' s Camoens, p. 127, note to 
page 56, or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review, 
of Strangford's Camoens. 

t It is also to be remarked, that the things given to 
the public as Poems of Camoens, are no more to be 
found in the original Portuguese than in the Song oi 
Solomon. 



112 



EXG/.ISI/ BARDS AXD SCOTCH REVIEWERS, 



1808. 



Or damn ihe dead \vith purgatorial praise, 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
P'orever feeble and forever tame. [shine! 

Trium})liant first see Temperas Triumphs 
Al least I'm sure they triumi)h'd over mine. 
(){ Muslims Triu)}ip/ts , all who read may swear 
That luckless music never triumph'd there.* 

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — Lo! the vSabliath bard. 
Sepulchral Grabame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; 
Breaks into blank the Ciospel of St. I.uke, 
And boldly pilft-rs from the Pentateuch; 
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the 
Psalms. j 

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things. 
And shows, still whimpering through three- 
score of years, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious 

Bowles! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? 
Whether thou sing'st with equal ease and grief 
The fall of empires or a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford 

bells;}: 
(Jr, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend; 
Ah! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap; 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest. 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears. 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years; 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain — 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 



** Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"* 
Such as none heard before, or will again; 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book, 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road. 
The ])ard sighs forth a gentle episode ;-j- 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous 

miss! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy sonnets, man! — at least they sell. 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a 

scribe; [f a.'d. 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the w^orst. 
Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan; 
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll;}: 
Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page; 
Affect a candor which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal; 
Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire. 
And do from hate what Mallet did for hire.§ 
Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to 

rhyme; II 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead; 



* Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are 
Triumphs 0/ Temper and Triumphs 0/ Music. He 
has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, &c., 
&c. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and bi- 
ography, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley 
to Mr. H.'s consideration, viz. : " to convert his poetry 
into prose," which may easily be done by taking away 
the final syllabic of each couplet. 

t Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, 
under the name of Sabbath Walks and Biblical Pic- 
tures. 

J See Bowles's Sonnets, &c. — Sonnet to Oxford and 
Siayizas on hearing the Bells qf Ostend. 



* "Awake a louder," &c., &c., is the first line in 
Bowles's spirit 0/ Discovery, a very spirited and pretty 
Iwarf epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the 
following: 

" A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 

Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," &c. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very 
much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phe- 
nomenon. 

t The episode here alluded to is the story of " Robert 
aMachin" and "Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant 
lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, that 
startled the woods of Madeira. 

t Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was 
a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord 
Hervey, author oi Lines to the Imitator 0/ Horace. 

§ Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after 
his decease, because the poet had retained some copies 
of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the Patriot King), 
which that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to 
be destroyed. 

11 " Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester: 
Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howk. 
Making night hideous^ answer him, ye owls—" 

Dnnclad. 



ii 



iSo8. 



ENGLISH BARDS AMD SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



113 



A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.* 

Another epic! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast. 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five? 
Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy, who'll 

buy? 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat. 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, [sold. 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he 
Oh, Amos Cottle! — Phoebus! what a name 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame! — 
Oh, Amos Cottle! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? 
Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied! 
Had Cottle still adorned the counter's side,f 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plow'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may 

sleep, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice all his granite weight of leaves 4 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering 

back again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo! sad Alcaeus wanders down the vale; 
Though fair they rose, and might have bloom 'd 

at last, 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 



* See Bowles's late edition of Pope's Works, for which 
he received ;^3oo; thus Mr. B. has experienced how 
muca easier it is to profit by the reputation of another 
than to elevate his own. 

t Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but 
one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, 
and now writers of books that do not sell, have published 
a pair of epics: Alfred^[^OQ,r Alfred ! Pye has been at 
him too \)— Alfred and the Fall of Cambria. 

X Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component 
parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the Beauties of Rich- 
mond Hill, and the like: it also takes in a charming 
view of Tumham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old 
and New, and the parts adjacent. 



Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails! 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep!* 

Yet, say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favor from the sacred Nine? 
Forever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness 

prowl; 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct all that cross their way; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's 

Seat?t 

Health to immortal Jefl"rey! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
And given the spirit to the world again. 
To sentence letters as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party,' though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may 

meet. 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat? 
Let Jeffreys' shade indulge the pious hope. 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 

Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind! 
Skill'd to condemn as to induce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care, 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve lis 
life 

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future w^ars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ' 
Can none remember that eventful day. 
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray. 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 



* Poor Montgomery, though praised by every Er; uh 
Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinbi. ;n. 
After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man of consider uie 
genius; his Wanderer of Switzerland \s, worth a t loii- 
sand Lyrical Ballads, and at least fifty "deg;:.ded 
epics." 

t Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinb.irgh. 
8 



[14 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS, 



1808. 



And Bow-Street myrmidons stood laughing 

by?* 
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock, 
Duneclin's castle felt a secret shock; 
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the 

north ; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear. 
The other half pursued its calm career;f 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms 4 
Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground. 
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound: 
Str^w'd were the streets around with milk-white 

reams, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; 
This of his candor seem'd the sable dew. 
That of his valor show'd the bloodless hue; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er [Moore; 
The field, and saved him from the wTath of 
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead. 
And straight restor'd it to her favorite's head; 
That head, with greater than magnetic power, 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shower, 
And, though the thickening dross will scarce 

refine, 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine, [again, 
*^ My son," she cried, ** ne'er thirst for gore 
Resign the pistol and resume the pen; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide! 
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 



♦ In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk 
Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of 
t}«5 magistracy ; and, on examination, the balls of the 
pistols, like the courage of the combatants, were found 
to have evaporated. This incident gave occasion to 
much waggery in the daily prints. 

t The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it 
would have been highly reprehensible in the Elnglish 
half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of 
apprehcnsior>. 

X This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth 
(the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to 
/vave been most affected on this occasion, is much to be 
^^mmcndcd. It was to be apprehended that the many 
unhappy crimraals executed m the front might have ren- 
dered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the 
soft«r sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day 
was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, 
porKaps a little selfish. 



So long shall last thine unmolested reign. 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.* 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, -j- and 

sometimes. 
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. 
Smug Sydney, j: too, thy bitter page shall 

seek, 
And classic Hallam,§ much renown'd for 

Greek; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence 

lend. 
And paltry Pillans || shall traduce his friend; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,^" 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she 

owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review • 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 



* His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of 
the Athenian Society, and Reviewer of Cell's ToJ>ogra- 
phy of Troy. 

t Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other 
poetry. One of the principal pieces is a Song on the 
Recovery of Thorns Hammer : the translation is a plea- 
sant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : 

" Instead of money and rings, I wot. 
The hammer's bruises were her lot : 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 

% The Reverend Sydney Smith, the reputed author of 
Peter Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 

% Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and 
was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein : it 
was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the 
press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, 
which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's 
ingenuity. 

The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely ac- 
cused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. 
If this be true, I am sorry — not for having said so, but 
on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are 
preferable to his compositions. If he did not review 
Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must 
have been painful to read, and irksome to praise it. If 
Mr Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real 
name shall find a place in the text ; provided, neverthe- 
less, the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, 
and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must 
stand for want of a better. 

11 Pillans was a tutor at Eton. 

ITThe Honorable G. Lambe reviewed Beresford's iWr'j- 
eries, and is, moreover, author of a farce enacted with 
much applause at the Priory, Stanmore; and damned 
with great expedition at Covent Garden. It was entitled 
Whistle for It, 



i8o8. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS, 



115 



Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy 

the sale, • 

Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.f 

Then prosper, Jeffrey I pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swell thy glorious lot; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.}: 
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd 

grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen! 

Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot! 
Holland, with Henry Pettyg at his back. 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may ca- 
rouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof. 
Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept 

aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's w@rk, 
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
Declare his landlord can at least translate ! || 
Dunedin! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — and feed because they 
write : 



♦Mr. Brougham, in No. xxv. of the Edinburgh Re- 
viewt throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de 
Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy; many 
of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed 
at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have with- 
drawn their subscriptions. 

tl ought to apologize to the worthy deities for intro- 
ducing a new goddess with short petticoats to their no- 
tice; but, alas, what was to be done ? I could not say 
Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no genius 
to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness; yet without 
supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The 
national " kelpies, &c., are too unpoetical, and the 
"brownies" and "gude neighbors" (spirits of a good 
disposition) refused to extricate him, A goddess there- 
fore has been called for the purpose; and great ought to 
be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only commu- 
nication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with anything 
heavenly, 

JSee the color of the back binding of the Edinburgh 
Review. 

§ Marquis of Lansdowne. 

IILord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de 
Vega, inserted in his life of the author ; both are be- 
praised by his disinterested guests. 



And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press 

escape. 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.* 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh! motley sight! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes in- 
vite! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,-j- 
And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete con- 
tent.}: 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio- 

mania's o'er,§ 
And full-grown actors are endured once more; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please. 
While British critics suffer scenes like these; 
While Reynolds vents his '^Dammes!" 
**Poohs!" and ** Zounds !"j| [founds? 

And common-place and common-sense con- 
While Kenny 'sT[ Worlds — ah! where is Ken-- 

ny's wit? 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit; 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words?** [rage, 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent 

gone? 
Have we no living bard of merit? — none! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake! 
Ring the alarum-bell! let folly quake! 
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 



♦Certain it is, her Ladyship is suspected of having dis- 
played her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. 
However that may be, we know from good authority 
that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no 
doubt for correction. 

tin the melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt 
into a barrel on the stage — a new asylum for distressed 
heroes. 

JThomas Dibdin, author ot The Cabinet, English 
Fleet t Mother Goose^ &c., and son of the great English 
lyrist. 

§The performance of a child called the young Roscius; 
his name was Betty. [Edit.] 

II All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, 
and prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. 

IfAuthor of the farce oi Raising the Wind, and other 
pieces. 

**Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane 
Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dia- 
logue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Car- 
actacus. Was this worthy of his sire ? or of himself? 



ii6 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



i8oS. 



One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her 

head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives totread ? 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask. 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? 
While Shakespeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot. 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? 
Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our 

praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike: whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay de- 
signs:* 
Nor sleeps with ** Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,f 
While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the 

scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why, John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should 
we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? 
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame. 
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons, J 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart. 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down: 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays; 
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured 
looks 

* Mr. Greenwood, scene-painter to Drury Lane 
Theatre. 

t Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the Sleep- 
ing Beauty, and some comedies, particularly Maids 
and Bachelors: Baccalaurii baculo magis quam lauro 
digni. 

X Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the vis- 
age of the one and the salary of the other will enable us 
long to recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we 
are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first 
night of the lady's appearance in tiousers. 



Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless 

veil; 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe; 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song. 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening 

throng! 
Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice! 
Reforming saints! too delicately nice! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave; 
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, dis- 
play 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or, hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle!* 
Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd 

fane. 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petronius of the day,f 
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgie, and the mazy dance. 
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, j 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords 1| 

combine : 
Each to his humor — Comus all allows; 
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's 

spouse. 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made: 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except en fnasque, 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 



* To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a strict 
for a man, 1 beg leave to state that it is the institution, 
and not the Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. 
A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost 
in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at ta:k- 
gammon. It is but justice to the manager in this m- 
stance to say, that some degree of misapprobation was 
manifested: but why are the implements of gaming al- 
lowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes ? 
A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters of thoie 
who are blest or cursed with such connections, to hear 
the billiard tables rattling m one room and the dice m 
another ! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a 
late unworthy member of an institution which materially 
affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower 
may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle 
without a chance of indictment for riotous behavior. 

t Petronius, " Arbiter elegantiarum " to Nero, " and 
a very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congrcve's Oki 
Bachelor saith of Hannibal. 



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ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



117 



The audience take their turn upon the floor; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers 
sweep, [leap; 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair [spare; 
With art the charms which nature could not 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be 

taught; [Spain, 

There the blithe youngster, just return 'd from 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; 
The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick, 
Or — done! — a thousand on the coming trick! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire. 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life. 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife; 
Fit consummation of an earthly raqe 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace. 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering 

breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
The mingled victim of a drunken brawl, 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.* 

Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide 

his hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng. 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the 

wrong. 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through passion's countless 

host. 
Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public 

weal: [say, 

Although some kind, censorious friend will 



* I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday 
night 1 beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the 
honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at 
three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained 
of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a 
gallant and successful officer : his faults were the faults 
of a sailor ; as such, Britons will forgive them. He died 
like a brave man in a better cause [he was killed in a 
duel]; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of 
the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last mo- 
ments would have been held up by his countrymen as an 
example to succeeding heroes. 



** What art thou better, meddling fool, than 

they?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening 

song. 
Then sleep my pen forever! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,* 
Why should we call them from their dark 

abode. 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in versed from Bond-street or the 

Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite. 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm? In spite of every critic elf. 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall. 
And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their 

rhymes? 
Roscommon! Sheflield! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head; 
No muse will cheer with renovating smile, 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away; 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow 

worse? 
What heterogeneous honors deck the peer! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, and pam- 
phleteer !f 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking 

stage; 
But managers for once cried, '*Hold, enough!" 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 



* What would be the sentiments of the Persian Ana- 
creon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at 
Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the 
oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name as- 
sumed by one Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and 
execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints ? 

t The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen 
penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his 
plan for building a new theatre ; it is to be hoped his 
Lordship will be permitted to bring forward anything 
for the stage — except his own tragedies. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



1808. 



Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
Yes, doff that covering, where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines.* ! 

With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, I 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread; ! 

With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand | 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous 

band. j 

On ** all the talents " vent your venal spleen; ' 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. j 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, j 

And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too;f j 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. ; 
vSuch damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at once your fleeting labors close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind. 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind.}: 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals 

fill, [still; 

Some stragglers skirmish round the columns! 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.§ 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, |j' 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of 

shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse; 
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! [applaud I 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his 

jest, [best? 

'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know 
Genius must guide when wits admire the 

rhyme. 



* " Doff that lion's hide, 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." — 
Shakspeakb, King John. 
Lord C.'s works, most resplendently bound, form a con- 
spicuous ornament to his book-shelves : 

"The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
t " Melville's Mantle, a parody on Elijah's Mantle," 
a poem. 

X This lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted 
Jew King, seems to be a follower of the Dello Crusca 
school, and has pubkshed two volumes of very respect- 
able absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry 
novels in the style of the first edition of The Monk. 

§ Tlicse arc the signatures of various worthies who 
figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 
II Joseph Blackett, the shonemakec 



And Capel Lofft^declares 'tis quite sublime.* 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! 
Swains, quit the plough, resign the useless 

spade ! 
Lo, Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
Forsook the labors of a servile state, [fate: 
Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over 
Then why no more ? If Phoebus smiled on you, 
Bloomfield, why not on brother Nathan too? 
Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: 
And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
No common be enclosed, without an ode.f 
Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
On Briton's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole. 
Alike the rustic and mechanic soul. 
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song; 
So shall the fair your handiwork peruse. 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your 

shoes. 
May moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, J" 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute 
Neglected genius! let me turn to you. [due, 
Come forth, O Campbell ! give thy talents scope ; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope? 
And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,§ 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past; 
Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant chrone. 
Assert thy country's honor and thine own. 
What! must deserted Poesy still weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns 
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel. Burns? 
No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 

brood. 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 



* Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and 
preface- writer-general to distressed versemen : a kind 
of gratis accoucher to those who wish to be delivered of 
rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. 

t See Kathaniel Bioomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever 
he or any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosure ot 
Honington Green. 

% Vide Recollections 0/ a Weaver in the Moorlands 
0/ Stajfordsliire. 

§ It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the 
reader the authors of The Pleasures 0/ Memory and 
The Pleasures 0/ Hope, the most beautiful didactic 
poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on 
Man : but so many poetasters have started up, that even 
the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange. 



i8o8. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



119 



Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, 
Who, least affecting, still affect the most; 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, MacneiL* 

** Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd 

in vain! f 
Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge? 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the 

scourge? 
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in eveiy street? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path. 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

UnhappyWhite ! while life was in its spring, if 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous 
The spoiler swept the soaring lyre away [wing, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy'd her favorite son! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit; 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the 

fruit. 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 

low. 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his 

nest. 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 

♦ Gifford, author of the Baviad dmd Meeviad^ the first 
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. 

Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
Georgics, and author oi Saul, an epic poem. 

Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, par- 
ticularly Scotland's Scaith : or, the Waes of War, of 
which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. 

t Mr Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and 
Mceviad should not be his last original works. Let him 
remember " Mox in reluctantes dracones." 

X Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 
1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit 
of studies that would have matured a mind which dis- 
ease and poverty could not impair, and which death 
itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound 
in such beauties as must impress the reader with the 
liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to 
talents which would have dignified even the sacred 
functions he was destined to assume. 



That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard t© sing, [write — 
'Tis true that all who rhyme — nay, all who 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires: 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest, 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Sheeand genius find a place,* 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace: 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line, 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glo\y. 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow; 
While honors, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach th# 

bower 
I Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour: 
j Whose steps have press'd, whos* eye has 

mark'd afar. 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'ei", 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye. 
Wright !f 'twas thy happy lot at orrce to vie^ 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too: 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards! who snatch'd to 

lightj: [sight; 

Those gems too long withheld from modern 

Whose mingling taste combined to cull the 

wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe. 
And all their renovated fragrance flung 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue; 
Nowletthoseminds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone: 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause 
Restore the muse's violated laws; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime. 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; 



* Mr. Shee, 2M\hox oi Rhymes on Art, and Eleinents 
of Art. 

t Mr. Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Is- 
lands, author of a very beautifal poem, entitled Hone 
lonicce: descriptive of the isles and adjacent coast of 
Greece. 

X The translators of the A nthotogy have since publish- 
ed separate poems which evinoe genius that only requires 
opportunity to attain eminence. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



i8a8. 



Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than Of Grub Street and of Grosvenor Place the best, 
clear, ' Scrawl on till death release us from the strain. 

The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass;' 



Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
i But thou, with powers that mock the aid of 
praise. 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays; 
Evaporate in similes and sound: 'Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, 

Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye,* Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield 

jThe glorious record of some nobler field, 



Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Wliose verse, of all but childish prattle void. 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd ;f 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to 
heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott, :( resign to minstrels 
The wilder slogan of a border feud; [rude 
Let others spin their meagre lines for hire; 
Enough for genius, if itself inspire! ' 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse. 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse; [verse, 
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
To rouse the galleries or to raise a ghost; 
Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from 
Moore, [yore; 

And swear that Camoens sang such notes of 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine. 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; 
Let Stott, Carlisle, § Matilda, and the rest 



Than the wild foray of a plundering clan. 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of 

man? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
For Sherwood's outlaw'd tales of Robin Hood ? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
But own the vast renown a world can give; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more. 
And tell the tale of what she was before; 
To future times her faded fame recall. 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope. 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce 

may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its 

noblest blast, [last; 

Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at 
And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 

*The neglect of the ^(?.^a«zV Ciri/(?« is some proof of! ou n i r^ l. n t, i i 

returning taste. 1 he scenery is its sole recommendation. ' ^^^^^ ^^^^'^T Granta call her sable sons, 
t Messrs Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble follow- ' Expert in science, more expert at puns? [flies. 



ers of Southey and Co. 

X By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his 
hero or heroine will be less addicted to Grauiarye, and 
more to grammar, than the Lady of tlie Lay, and her 
bravo, William of Deloraine. 

s) It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of 
Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a 
volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardian- 
ship was nominal, at least as far as 1 have been able to 
discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very 
sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a 
very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my 
memory with the recollection. I do not think that per- 
sonal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a 



Shall these approach the muse? Ah, no! she 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 



Lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedi- 
cation, and more from the advice of others than my own 
judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronounc- 
ing my sincere recantation. 1 have heard that some 
persons conceive mc to be under obligations to Lord 
Carlisle; if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn 
what they are, and when conferred, that they may be 
duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I 



u .u r-i_i u . T ' 11 1 11 have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed 

brother scribbler: but I see no reason why they should things. I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quota- 
act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble. 1 ^j^^J ^^^^ ^{"^^^^^ eulogies, odes, episodes, ind certain 



has for a scries of years beguiled a " discerning public 
(as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most 
orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, 1 do not step a^ide 
to vituperate the Karl; no — his works come fair'y in re- 
view with those of other patrician literati. If, I'cfo'-e 1 
escaped from my teens, 1 said anything in fav .r of his I So says Pope, Amen \ 



facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and 
mark: 

"What can ennoble knaves, or /oo's, or cowards? 
Alas ! not all the blood of ail the Howards I" 



i8o8. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



121 



With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by 
Hoyle: ' | 

Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.* 
Ye! who in Granta's honors would surpass. 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously «* to 
please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; 
Himself a living libel on mankind. f 

Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! J: 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! 
So lost to Phoebus that nor Hodgson'sg verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's|| 

worse ! 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove. 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic 

grove; 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. ^f 

For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell 
My country what her sons should know too well. 
Zeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age : 
No just applause her honor'd name shall lose. 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame. 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! 



* The Games of Hoyle^ well known to the votaries of 
whist, chess, &c., are not to be superseded by the vagar- 
ies of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as 
expressly stated in the advertisement, ail the ** plagues 
of Egvpt." 

t This person was the writer of a poem denominated 
the Art cf Pleasingy as " lucus a non lucendo," con- 
taining little pleasantry and less poetry. He al o acted 
as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the 
Satirist, 

X " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus trans- 
ported a considerable body of Vandals." — Gibbon* s De- 
cline and Fall, page 83, vol. ii. There b no reason to 
doubt tha truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high 
perfection. 

§ This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man 
who in translation displays unquestionable genius may 
be well expected to excel in original composition, of 
which, it is to be hoped, we shall soon see a splendid 
specimen. 

Ii Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it is written. 

^The Aboriginal Britons, an excellent poem by 
Richards. 



What Athens was in science, Rome in power. 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: 
But Rome decay'd and Athens strew'd the 

plain, [main: 

And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter 'd in the 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin 

hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoffed at, till too late; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
And uige thy bards to gain a name like thine. 

Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest, 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his 

wit. 
And old dame Portland* fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; 
And Afric's coast, and Calpe's adverse height, f 
And Stamboul'sij: minarets, must greet my 

sight: [clime, § 

Thence shall I stray through beauty's native 
Where Kaff|| is clad in rocks, and crown'd 

with snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess; 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far. 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr: 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin^f still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian 

freaks. 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid Cell;** 



* A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. 
was likened to an old woman, replied, "he supposed it 
was because he was past bearing." His Grace is now 
gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound 
as ever; but even his sleep was better than his col- 
leagues* waking. 1811. 

t Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. 

X Stamboul is the 'I'urkish word for Constantinople. 

§ Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 

II Mount Caucasus. 

1[ Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the fig- 
ures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the 
work of Phidias 1 " Credat Judaus !" 

** Mr. Cell's Tocography of Troy and Ithaca can- 
not fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed 
of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. con- 
veys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and re- 
search th« respective works display. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RE VIEWERS. 



1808. 



And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd eareer, 
Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear: 
This thing of rhyme, I ne'er disdain'd to own — | 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud; 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd;' 
And now at once I tear the veil away: — | 

Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's 

spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are ** penetrable stuff:" 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound 

would fall 



From lips that now may seem imbued with 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise [gall; 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my 

eyes; 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since 

youth, [truth; 

I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant forme; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters 

frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others 

say; 
This, let the world, which knows not how to 

spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the 
Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom 
they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry: 

" Tantaene animis ccelestibus irse:" 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, " An' I had known he was so cunning offence, I 

had seen him d d ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the 

next number has passed the Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. 

My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literarv anthropopha- 
gus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slandering," and 
slake their thirst by " evil speaking" ? 1 have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have 
stated my free opinion ; nor has he hence sustained any injury: — what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted 
with mud ? It may be said that I quit England because 1 have censured there " persons of honor and wit about 
town ;" but 1 am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can 
testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, 
may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed: I have been 
mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! 
" the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. 

There is a youth yclept Ilewson Clarke (subaudi Esquire), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen 
of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been ac- 
customed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that 1 can discover, except a per- 
sonal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity 
contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above 
mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any 
provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore 
no reason to complain, and 1 dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rvLX.\\Q.r pleased than otherwise. I have 
now mentioned all who have done me the honor to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except 
the Editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman — God wot 1 I wish he could impart a little of his gen- 
tility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Maicenas, 
Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me 
with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further 
to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers; and, in the words of Scott, I 
wish 

" To all and each a fair good night. 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE ** AD PISONES, DE ARTE 
FOETICA," AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO ** ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 

" Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 

Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HoR. De Arte Poet 
** Rhymes are difficult things — they are stubborn things, sir." 

FiKiAiiiiG's Amelia. 



Athens: Capuchin Convent, March 12, iSn. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to 

grace 
His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or siale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail? 
Or low Dubost* — as once the world has 

seen — [spleen? 

Degrade God's creatures in his graphic 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning 

friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's 

dreams. 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know. 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 
"We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle 

dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown: 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly 

plain: 
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, 
and old walls: 



* In an Englislr newspaper, which finds its way abroad 
wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of 

this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H as a " beast," 

and the consequent action, &c. The circumstance is, 
probably, too well known to require further comment. 



Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.* 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may 
shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot; [got; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and for- 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint Review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till — true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure, [scribe) 
I labor to be brief — become obscure; 
One falls while following elegance too fast; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly. 
He spins his subject to satiety; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves [waves ! 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice. 
The flight from folly leads but into vice; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins S^owshears is your man; 
But coats must claim another artisan. f 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose! 

Dear authors, suit your topics to your 
strength, 



* ** Where pure description held the place of sense." 

—Pope. 

t Mere common mortals were commonly content 
with one tailor, and with one bill, but the more particu- 
lar gentlemen found it impossible to confide their lower 
garments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak 
of the beginning of 1809 : what reform may have since 
taken place I aetther know nor desire to know. 



124 



IIIXTS FROM HORACE. 



And ponder well your subject and its length; 
Nor lift your load before you're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, [bear. 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach them wisely to combine 
W^ith future parts the now omitted line: 
This shall the author choose, or that reject. 
Precise in style, and cautious to select; 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pitt has furnish'd us a word or two,* 
Which lexicographers declined to do;) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this license rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days, 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say why not, 
\s well as WilHam Pitt, and Walter Scott? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues; 
'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please; 
And we and ours, alas! are due to fate, 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce 

calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; [sustain 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain. 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar. 
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last, 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;-j- 
Though those shall sink, which now appear to 

thrive. 
As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
O.ir life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels 
wage. 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? 



* Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parlia- 
mentary tongue ; as may be seen 'n\ many publications, 
particularly the Edinburj^h Review. 

t Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are 
at present in as much request as o!J wine or new 
speeches. In fact, this is the millennium of black letter ; 
thanks to our Hcbcrs, Webers, and bcottsl 



His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the fri^d's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's 
dean.* 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side, [days. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; 
While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and pun in very middling prose, -j- 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the 

worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear, [year! 

Poor virgin! damn'd some twenty times a 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have 
weight : — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings. 
When common prose will serve for common 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [things; 
To <* hollowing Hotspur" and the sceptred 
sire. J 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art. 
To polish poems; they must touch the heart: 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — anything but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
LuU'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 



* " MacFlecknoe," the " Dunciad," and all Swift's 
lampooning ballads. Whatever their other works may 
be, these originated in personal feelings, and angry re- 
tort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these 
satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts 
from the personal character of the writers. 

t With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence 
oi puns, they have Aristotle on their side ; who permits 
them to orators, and gives them consequence by a grave 
disquisition. 

t " And in his ear I'll hollow, Mortimer I" — i Henry 



HINTS PROM HORACE, 



125 



Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face. 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye: 
For nature forfti'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground; 
And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung. 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
\Vho,worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. 
And raise a laugh with anything — but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import. 
Whence spring their scenes, from common 

life or court; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear. 
To draw a ** Lying Valet," or a ** Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering ** Peregrine," or plain **John 
Bull;" [vails. 

All persons please when nature's voice pre- 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Whales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot; 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw. 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand; 
For tears and treachery, for good and evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the 
But if a new design you dare essay, [Devil! 
And freely wander from the beaten way. 
True to your characters, till all be past. 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;* 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 



A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err; 
Yet copy not too closely, but record, [word; 
More justly, thought for thought than word for 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways. 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard! whom luckless fate 

may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls. 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like 

Bowles!* 



*" Difficile est propria communiadicere: tuque."] Mde 
Dacier, Mde de Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left 
their dispute on the meaning of this passage in a tract 
considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is 
printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame 
de Sevigne's Letters edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806. 
Presuming, that all who can construe may venture an 
opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who 
can 7iot have taken the same liberty, I should have held 
my "farthing candle " as awkwardly as another, had 
not my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's 
Augustan siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious 
authorities, ist, Boileau: " II est difficile de traiter des 
sujets qui sont a la portee de tout le monde d'une man- 
iere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'appro- 
prier un sujet par le tour qu'on y donne." 2ndly, Bat- 
teux: "Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits pro- 
pres et individuels aux etres purement possibles." srdly, 
Dacier^ "II est difficile de traiter convenablement ces 



caracteres que tout le monde pent inventer." Mde de 
Sevigne's opinion and translation, consisting of some 
thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvelle ob- 
serves, " La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces 
diverses interpretations ne parait etrela veritable." But, 
by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, "Le 
lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance, to set Hor- 
ace on his legs again, " dissiper tous les nuages, et con- 
cilier tous les dissentimens;" and some fifty years hence, 
somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless start up 
and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty 
affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, 
or his comments of no more consequence than astronom- 
ical calculations on the present comet. I am happy to 
say, " la longueur de la dissertation " of M. D. prevents 
M. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better 
poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as Se- 
vigne, has said, 

" A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
And by this comparison of comments, it may be per- 
ceived how a good deal may be rendered as perilous to 
the proprietors. 

* About two years ago a young man named Townsend 
was announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review (since 
deceased), as being engaged in an epic poem to be en- 
tided 'Armageddon.' The plan and specimen promise 
much; but 1 hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor 
his friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of 
Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Town- 
send succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to 
hope, how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cum- 
berland for bringing him before the public I But, till 
that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted whether 
the premature display of this plan (sublime as the ideas 
confessedly are) has not — by raising expectations too 
high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing his argu- 
ment, — rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Town- 
send's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose 
talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute 
of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me 
actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish 
the author all the success he can wi^h himself, and shall 
be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the 
bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cow- 
ley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the 
" dull of past and present days." Even if he is not a 
Milton, he may be better than Blackmore: if not a 
Homer,2ca. Antitnachus. I should deem myself pre- 
sumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it 
not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has 
the greatest difficulties to encounter: but in conquering 
them he will find employment; in having conquered 
them, his reward. I know too well " the scribbler's 
scoff, the critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will 
teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those who 
succeed, and those who do not, must bear this alike, and 
it is hard to say which have most of it. I trust that Mr. 
Townsend's share will be from envy: he will soon know 
mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to 
malice. 



126 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



** Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, what follows from his boiling 

brain? — 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
Whose epic mountains never fail in mice! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
** Of man's first disobedience and the fruit " 
He speaks, but as his subject swells along. 
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done; 
I^eaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene; 
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight. 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness 

—light; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds. 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear: 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age; 
While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told; 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his 

plays; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! 

Behold him Freshman! forced no more to 
groan 
O'er Virgil's devilish verses and his own;* 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from Tavell's frown to *< Fordham's 

Mews;" 
(Unlucky Tavell! doom'd to daily caresf 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears;) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash. 



*Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the 
blood, used to fling awav Virgil in his ecstasy of admira- 
tion and say, "the book had a devil." Now, such a 
character as I am copying would probably fling it away 
also, but rather wish that the devil had the book; not 
from di-slikc to the poet, but a well-founded horror of 
hexameters. Indeed, the public school penance of 
*' Long and Short" Ls enough to beget an antipathy to 
poetrv for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far 
may be an advantage. 

t" Infandum, reginajubes renovaredolorem." I dare 
say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no aff"ront) will under- 
stand me; and it is no matter whether any one else does 
or no. — To the above events, "quaeque ipse miserrima 
vidi, et quorum pars magna fui," all timex and terms 
bear testimony. 



Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him 

sore; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease. 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees); 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term 
And unexpell'd, perhaps, retires M. A. ; [away. 
Master of arts! 2iS hells and <:/«^j proclaim,* 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter 

name! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire. 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank; 
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to 

cheer. 
His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o*er each departing penny 

grieves. 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves; 
Counts cent, per cent, and smiles, or vainly 

frets [debts: 

O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot! 

But from the Drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you 
less. [stirr'd, 

Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are 
When what is done is rather seen than heard. 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye. 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show; 
We hate the carnage, while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death; 
To gaze when sable H ubert threats to sear 

* *• Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk 
little, and are cheated a good deal. " Club," a pleasant 
purgatory, where vou lose more, and arc not supposed 
to be cheated at all. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



127 



Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature 

bear? 
A halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay* — 
We sav'd Irene, but half damn'd the play, 
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes; 
And Lewis', self, with all his sprites, would 

quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows, what may not authors do. 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing <* heroines 

blue."t 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man, 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did; 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong. 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends. 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their 

bread, 
In all iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements w^hich are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing 

ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear. 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
His anguish doubling by his own <* encore;" 
Squeezed in ** Fop's Alley," jostled by the 

beaux. 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of 

ease. 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release: 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye 

guess? — [dress! 

Because it costs him dear, and makes him 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools! 



* " Irene had to speak two lines with the bow-string 
round her neck; but the audience cried out 'murder!' 
and she was obliged to go off the stage alive." — BoswelVs 
Johnson, 

t In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre/' Mr. Lewis 
tells us, that though blacks were unknown in England 
at the period of his action, yet he has made the anachron- 
ism to set oflf the scene: and if he could have produced 
the effect "by making his heroine blue," — I quote him 
— ^' blue he would have made her I" 



Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend 

clerk,* 
(What harm if David danced before the ark?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and 

coarse jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known, 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame 

Joan, 
W^ho still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;f 
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives 

place, [race. 

Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and 

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her 

psime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared the 

best, 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers. 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers : 
^* Alas, poor Yorick!" now forever mute! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When ** Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit; [sit, 
Yes, friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell. 
And bear Swift's motto, *' Vive la bagatelle!" 
Which charm'd our days in each y^gean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the 

last; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,:]: 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the drama let us bend our eyes. 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 



* " The first theatrical representations, entitled * Mys- 
teries and Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christ- 
mas, by monks (as the only persons who could read), 
and latterly by the clergy and students of the universi- 
ties. The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Pater 
Ccelestis, Faith, Vice, &c., &c." — See Warton's History 
of English Poetry. 

t Benvolio does not bet: but every man who main- 
tains race-horses is a promoter of all the concomitant 
evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little pharisaical. 
Is it an exculpation ? I think not. I never yet heard a 
bawd praised for chastity, because she herself did not 
commit fornication. 

X Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of 
Sophron was found the day he died, — Vide Barthelemi, 
De Pauw, or Diogenes Laertius, if agreeable. De Pauw 
calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, in his Observer, terms 
it moral, like the sayings of Publins Syrus. 



128 



HINTS FROM HORACE.. 



Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance! | 

Yet Chesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs*! 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our 

plays ; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act! again let Humor roam 
\Vild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at 

home. 
Let ** Archer" plant the horns on '' wSullen's " 

brows, 
And *' Estifania" gull her '< Copper" spouse ;f 
The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 
Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 
Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 
It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd 

before? 
And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse, :f 
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! 
Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal? 
Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal? 
For times of fire and faggot let them hope! 
Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
E'en now the songs of Solyma begin; 
Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin! 
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he 

loves, ['< shoves. "II 

And Simeon kicks, § where Baxter only 

Whom nature guides, so writes that every 
dunce. 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind. 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 



* His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his most 
eloquent efforts. 

t Michael Perez, the Copper Captain, in " Rule a Wife 
and have a Wife." 

t Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, &c., on 
the subject of the drama, is too well known to require 
further comment. 

§Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and casti- 
gator of " good works." He is ably supported by John 
Stickles, a laborer in the same vineyard : — but I say no 
more, for, acc(jrding to Johnny in full congregation, 
" No hopes /or them as laughs V 

i " Baxters Shove to heavy-a — d Christians," the 
veritable title of a book once in good repute, and likely 
enough to be so again. i 



Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste! 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest. 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest. 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made 
them pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line. 
This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far [weight, 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'dtoo much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts 
confine. 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. 
To gain the paltry suffrage of *^ correct ^^ f 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise? 

Ye, who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste ! 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low , 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears. 
Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers were; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art 
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There's pomp enough, if little else, in playsj 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



129 



Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne [stone. | 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol' 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, \ 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws; i 

At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest. 
Curtail or silence the lascivious jest. 

Whatever their follies and their faults beside. 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse. 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, [claim 
If all our bards, more patient of delay. 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of 

faults , 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail. 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail! 
Democritus himself was not so bad; 
He only thought, h\xt you would make, us mad I 

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please. 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake;* 
Then print your book, once more return to 
town, down. 

And boys shall hunt your hardship up and 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring — ^^like Bayes — before I 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, [write? 
I know no scribbler with a madder style; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I'll labor gratis as a grinder's wheel. 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel. 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing for the poet's part; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
And from my own example — what is wrong. 



* As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better 

Eaid, and may, like him, be one day a senator, having a 
etter qualification than one-half of the heads he crops, 
viz. — independence. 



Though modern practice sometimes differs 
quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you write; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are. 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise. 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize: 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well 

told, [hold 

Without much grace, or weight, or art, will 

A longer empire o'er the public mind 

Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their 

hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools 
compel [spell) 

To *' long and short " before they're taught to 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
"A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder 
make? — [the sum! 

** A groat." — ** Ah, bravo! Dick hath done 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust 
betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight; 
For poets (says this sage, and many more,)* 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus,f or an Irish mine.:j: 



* I have not the original by me, but the Italian trans- 
lation runs as follows: — " E una cosa a mio credere molto 
stravagante, che un padre desideri, o permetta, che suo 
figliuolo coltivi e perfezioni questo talento." A little 
further on: "Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere 
d'oro e d'argento." — Educazione dei Fanciulli del 
Signor Locke. 

t " Iro paiiperior :" this is the same beggar who 
boxed with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he 
lost, and half a dozen teeth besides. — See Odyssey, b. 18. 

X The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just 
ore enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea, 
9 



I30 



Il/X7\S rKOM HORACE. 



Two objects always sliould the poet move, 
(J)r one or both, — to please or to improve. 
W hate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line; 
Redundance places memory on the rack. 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like 
truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales! 

Young men with aught but elegance dis- 
pense; 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once: — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
. The patronage of Paternoster-row; [pass 

1 lis book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him 
brass); [lead, 

Through three long weeks the taste of London 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed, 

But everything has faults, nor is't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
With all his best endeavors, only squall; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the 
spark, [mark.* 

And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two; [view, 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend. 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let llavard's fate o'ertake him,f who, for 

once, 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: 
At first none dcem'd it his; but when his 

name [fame.i 

Announced the fact — what then? — it lost its! 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, , 
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. j 

* As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer,, 
to whom he was under great obligations — '\[>id J/omer \ 
[dayjin him !) calls" — it maybe presumed that any- J 
body or anything may be damned in verse by poetical 
license ; and, m case of accident, 1 bog leave to plead so 
iilustri(;us a precedent. 

1 Fur the storj^ of Billy Havard's tragedy, see | 
" Davies's Life of Garrick." I believe it is " Kegulus,"i 
or " Charles the First." The moment it was known to 
be his the theatre thinned, and the bookseller refused to 
give the customary sum for tl»e copyright. 



As pictures, so shall poems be; some stand 
Thj critic eye, and please when near at hand; 
lUit others at a distance strike the sight; 
Tliis seeks the shade, but that demands the 

light. 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance or 

choice 
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, 

concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed! 
In these plain common sense will travel far; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar: 
But poesy between the best and worst 
Xo medium knows; you must be last or first, 
For middling poets' miserable volumes 
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and 

columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey! — as that sound inspires. 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel. 
Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than 
Turks,* [works." 

Would rob poor Faith to decorate ** good 



* To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to 
return thanks for the fervor of that charity which, in 
1809, induced them to express a hope that a thing then 
published by me might lead to certain consequences, 
which, although natural enough, -surely came but rashly 
from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, 
where they congratulated themselves on the prospect 
of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which 
some great good was to accrue, provided one or both 
were knocked on the head. Having survived two years 
and a half those " Elegies'* which they were kindly pre- 
paring to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them 
"so joyful a trouble," except indeed " upon compuUion, 
Hal ;" but if, as David says in the '* Rivals," it should 
come to " bloody sword and gun-fighiing," we '* won't 
run, will we, Sir Lucius V 1 do not know what I had 
done to those Eclectic gendemen: my works are their 
lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag. if it 
seem meet unto them; but why they should be in such a 
hurry to kill off their author, 1 am ignorant. " The race 
is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;" 
and now, as these Christians have " Smote me on one 
check," I hold them up the other; and, in return for their 
good wishes, gi\e them an opportunity of repeating 
them. Had any otlicr set of men expressed such senti- 
ments, I should have smiled, and left them to the "re- 
cording angel;" but from the pharisees of Christianity 
decency might be expected, lean assure these breth- 
ren, that, publican and siiuier as I am, I would not have 
treated " mine enemy's dog thus." lo show them the 
superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend 
Messrs. Simeon or Ransden should be engaged in such 
a conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, I 
hope they may escape with being " winged " only, ancJ 
that Heaviside may be at hand to extract the ball. 



HINTS FROM HORACE, 



131 



Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim— 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas! ** I cannot strike at wretched kernes." 
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine? 
Dear d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's 

wrongs? 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
liast thou no weapon for my daring deed? 
What! not a word! — and am I then so low? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 
Ifast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 
No wit for nobles, dunces by descent? 
No jest on ** minors," quibbles on a name. 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? 
Is it for this on Iliori I have stood. 
And thought of Homer less than Ilolyrood? 
On shore of Euxine or ^gean sea. 
My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 
Ah! let me cease: in vain my bosom burns, 
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns:* 
Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego. 
Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
What then? — Edina starves some lanker son. 
To write an article thou canst not shun; 
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modern pie; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun; 
Will he who swims not to the river run? 
And men unpractised to exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil. 
None reach expertness without years of toil; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they 

please. 
Why not? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
* Invenies aiium, si te hie fastidit Alexin. 



To all their income, and to — twice its tax; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault. 
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic salt? [you, 
Thus think "the mob of gentlemen;" but 
Resides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
And print not piping hot from Southey's 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears) [school, 
I trust will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark ye,Southey !* pray, but don't be vex'd, 

* Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his 
tail in the " Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of 
Madoc, &c., and has in one instance had a wonderful 
effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely 
evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Pad- 
dington canal, was alarmed by the cry of " one in jeop- 
ardy :" he rushed along, collected a body of Irish hay- 
makers (supping on butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), 
procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, 
and at last (horresco referens) pulled out — his own pub- 
lisher. The unfortunate man was gone forever, and so 
was a large quarto wherewith he h.'d taken the leap, 
which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last 
work. Jts "alacrity of sinking" was so great that it 
has never since been heard of; though some maintain 
that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's 
pastry premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coro- 
ner's inquest brought in a verdict of " Felo de biblio- 
pola " against a " quarto unknown ;" and circumstantial 
evidence being since strong against the " Curse of 
Kehama" (of which the above words are an ex- 
tract description), it will be tried by its peers next 
session, in Grub-street — Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, 
Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus Exodia, Epigoniad, 
Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Rod- 
erick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names 
of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, 
and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre's. The same ad- 
vocates, pro and con, will be employed as are 
now engaged in Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause in 
the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await the re- 
sult, and all live publishers will be subpoenaed as wit- 
nesses. — But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of 
Kehama," — an invitmg title to quibblers. By-the-by, it 
is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and not 
much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to 
entitle them in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of 
which, by-the-by, Southey is editor), " the grand poeti- 
cal triumvirate of the day." But, on second thoughts, it 
can be no great degree of praise to be the one-eyed 
leaders of the blind, though they might as well keep to 
themselves " Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which 
must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor 
Southey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus" of this poeti- 
cal triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in such 
good company. 

" Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare. 
But wonder how the devil he came there." 
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of 
Euclid : — " Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B, D 
B is equal to A C, and B C common to both ; the two 
sides D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B, each to 
each, and the angle D B C is equal to the angle A C B: 
therefore, the base D C is equal to the base A B, and the 
triangle D B C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A 
C B, the less to \\v^ greater, which is absurd, &c. — The 
editor of the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of 
the theorem hard by his stabling ; he has onl\ to cross 
the river ; 'tis the first turnpike t'other side " Pons Asi- 



* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of 



132 



HINTS FROM HORACk. 



Burn all your last three works — and half the 

next. 
But why this vain advice? — once publish'd, 

books 
Can never be recalTd — from pastry-cooks! 
Though ** Madoc," with " Pucelle," instead 

of punk,* 
May travel back to Quito — on a trunk !*)• 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren, 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming 
scythes, [tithes; 

And served the church — without demanding 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, [East, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since; 
And old Tyrtceus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 
And gods were not ashamed on't, why should 
we ? 

The Muse, like mortal females, may be 
woo'd; 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright. 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 



Edinburgh. Ballantyne said it meant the " Bridge of 
Berwick," but Southey claimed it as half English ; Scott 
swore it was the "Brig o' Stirling;" he had just passed 
two King Jameses and a dozen Douglases over it. At 
last it was decided by Jeffrey that it meant nothing more 
nor less than the " counter of Archy Constable's shop," 

* Voltaire's " Pucelle " is not quite so immaculate as 
Mr. Southey's "Joan of Arc,' and yet 1 am afraid the 
frenchman has both more truth ancl poetry too on his 
side — v^hey rarely go together) — than our patriotic min- 
strel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical French 
strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the 
change of the first letter. 

t Like Sir Bland Burgess's " Richard ;" the tenth book 
of which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyre's, 19 Cock- 
spur-street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a portman- 
teau to quote from. 



Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize. 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, 
Must bear privations with unruffled face. 
Be call'd to labor when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his 

wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
Have follow'd music through her farthest 

flight; 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
** I've got a pretty poem for the press;" 
And that's enough; then write and print so 

fast;— 
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all. 
They leap the counter, and they leave the 

stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand! 
Cash cannot quell them; Pollio play'd this 

prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank!) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head;* 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously 

thrive. 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive! 
Reviews record this epidemic crime. 
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme, 
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen 
In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine, 
There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot 

press'd. 
Behold a quarto! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious 

chords 
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords. 
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat 

stale. 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! 
illark to those notes, narcotically soft! 

' Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 
Gurgite cum medio portans CEagrius Hebrus, 
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua ; 
Ah, miseram Eurydicen 1 anima fugiente vocabat : 
Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripae." 

Georgic.t iv. 523. 



4 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



133 



The cobbler- laureats* sing to Capel Lofft!-j- 
Till lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 

There lives one driiid, who prepares in time 
*Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of 

rhyme; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse. 



♦"The cobbler-laureats."] I beg Nathaniel's par. 
don ; he is not a cobbler ; tY is a tailor , but begged Ca- 
pel LofFt to sink the profession in his preface to two pair 
of panta — psha ! — of cantos, which he wished the public 
to try on ; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far 
saved the expense of an advertisement to his country 
customers. — Merry's " Moorfield's whine " was nothing 
to all this. The " Delia Cruscans " were people of some 
education, and no profession ; but these Arcadians ("Ar- 
cades ambo" — bumpkins both) send out their native 
nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the 
shoes and small clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch 
up Elegies on Enclosures and Paeans to Gunpowder, 
Sitting on a shopboard, they describe the fields of battle, 
when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the 
finger ; and an " Essay on War" is produced by the 
ninth part of a " poet.*^ 

" And own that nine such poets made a Tate/* 
Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, 
why not take it as his motto ? 

t This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some ex- 
cellent shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical 
undoing of many of the industrious poor. Nathaniel 
Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somer- 
setshire singing ; nor has the malady confined itself to 
one counter. Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught 
the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow 
named Blackett into poetry ; but he died during the op- 
eration, leaving one child and two volumes of '* Re- 
mains '* utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take a 
poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, 
may do well ; but the " tragedies " are as rickety as if 
they had been the offspring of an Eail or a Seatonian 
prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly 
answerable for his end ; and it ought to be an indictable 
offence. But this is the least they have done ; for, by a 
refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man 
postliumously ridiculous, by printing what he would 
nave had sense enough never to print himself. Certes 
these rakers of "Remains" come under the statute 
against " rt;surrection men." What does it signify 
whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in 
Surgeons* or in Stationers' Hall ? Is it so bad to unearth 
his bones as his blunders ? Is it not better to gibbet his 
body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? We know 
what we are, but we know not what we maybe ; and 
it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has 
passed through life with a sort of eclat is to find himself 
a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like 
poor Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The 
plea of publication is to provide for the child ; now, 
might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's" friends 
and seducers have done a decent action without inveig- 
ling Pratt into biography t And then his inscription 
split into so many modicums ! — " To the Duchess of So- 
much, the Right Hon. So-and-so, and Mrs. and Miss 
Somebody, these volumes are," &c., &c. — why, this is 
doling out the " soft milk of dedication " in gills, — there 
is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, 
Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six 
families of distinction can share this in quiet ? There is 
a child, a book, and a dedication ; send the girl to her 
Grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to 
the devil. 



To publish faults which friendship should 

excuse. 
If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught to him ? 
He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking 

hate, 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to 

frown. 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 
If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man — 
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
Then be it so; and may his withering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in 

praise! [stink. 

While his lost songs no more shall steep and 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
But springing upwards from the sluggish 

mould. 
Be (what they never were before) be — sold! 
Should some rich bard(but such a monster now, 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow), 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
Some rhyming peer — there's plenty of the 

sort — * 
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
(Ah! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candle-light. 
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf. 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 



*Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once 
more to his notice the sole survivor, the " ultimus Ro- 
manorum," the last of the Cruscanti — " Edwin " the 
" profound," by our Lady of Punishment ! here he is, as 
lively as in the days of " well said Baviad the Correct." 
I thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas ! 
he is only the penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
And so perhaps you'll say of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny. 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, &c., &c. 

ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMERS. 

In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses. 
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find 

It knows not its resources: 
And men through life assume a part 

For which no talents they possess. 
Yet wonder that, with all their art. 

They meet no better with success, &c., &c 



134 



niXTS FROM HORACE. 



Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 
(The Lord forgive him!) ^'l^ravo! grand! 

divine!" [fed. 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry 
Dependence barters for her bitter bread). 
He strides and stamps along with creaking 

boot, 
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot. 
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
As when the dying vicar will not die! 
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart; — 
But all dissemblers overact their part. 

Ye, who aspire to '* build the lofty rhyme," 
Believe not all who laud your false *' sublime;" 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and 

say, 
** Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answers,'* Burn!" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; 
But if (true bard!) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,* 
^Ye'll have no words — I've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favorite thought,! 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought; j 

If your cool friend annoy you now and then, | 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much in shade. 
Nor letadoubt obscure one verse you've made; 
Your friend's a *< Johnson," not to leave one 

•vord, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for critics, or their quills. f 

As the vScotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
As yawning waiters flyij: Fitzscribl)le's lungs; 

♦Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and 
a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upo.i 
earth, such as Madoc, &c., &c. 

t" A crust for the zx'\\Xz^''—Daycs, ht the " Rehear- 
saiy 

t And the " waiters " are the only fortunate people 
who can " fly " from them; all the rest, viz. the sad sub- 



Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented 
If by some chance he walks into a well, [ways, 
I And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 
I'* A ro^Dc! help. Christians, as ye hope for 
I grace!" 

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 
For there his carcass he might freely fling. 
From frenzy, or the humor of the thing, [one; 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than 
I'll tell you Budgell's story, — and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood,) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
'' To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames!* 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he 

leaves; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; 
Dosedf with vile drams on Sunday he was 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! [found, 
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit: 
But hwi, unhappy! whom he seizes, — him 
Fie flays with recitation limb by limb; [breach, 
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his 
And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 

scribers to the " Literary Fund,'* being compelled, by 
cpurtesy, to sit out the recitation without a hope of ex- 
claiming, "Sic " (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine 
or wors2 poetry) " me scrvavit Apollo !" 

*0n his table were found these words: " "What Cato 
did, and Addison approved, cannot be wrong.'' But Addi- 
son did not "approve;" and if he had, it would not have 
mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on 
the same water-party; but Miss Budgell, by some ac- 
cident, escaped this last paternal attention. Thus f'^ll 
the sycophant of " Atticus," and the enemy of Pope 

t If " dosed with," &c., be censured as low, I beg 
leave to refer to the original for somethini^ still lower ; 
and if any reader will translate " Minxerit in patrios 
cineres," &c., into a decent couplet, I will insert said 
couplet in lieu of the present. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA.* 

'* Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 

Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 

^neid, lib. xii. 



Athens : Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright. 
But one unclouded blaze of living light; 



iNo murky vapor, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form; 

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 

i play, 

j There the white column greets her grateful ray ; 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows: Her emblem sparkles o'er the minarets 



On old yEgina's rock and If ydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine. 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse. 



The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wid'e, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
iThe gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, ^* 
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm: 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye; 



More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing j And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

glance. 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of 



heaven, 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast," 
When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's f latest day; 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill. 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sunk below Cithseron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly. 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo! from high Plymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign :j 



* This satire on Lord Elgin for bringing the remains of 
Grecian art from the Parthenon to England was not pub- 
lished by Lord Byron. He suppressed it, and used the 
beautiful opening lines for his Corsair. It was published 
four years after his death, in 1828. 

t Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

+ lhc twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country ; the days in winter are longer, but in sum- j 
mer ®f less duration. 



Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
^lix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to 
smile. 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,f 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore. 
Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan. 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease. 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on hi-gh 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god; 
But chiefly, Pallas! thine; when Plecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadiy fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 



* The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wali 
intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
Ilissus has no stream at all. 

t The Parthenon, or Temple of Minerva. 



136 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



1811. 



When, lo! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode! 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how 

changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand: 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow. 
Pier idle eegis bore no Gorgon nov»'; 
,J-Ier helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal 

glance; [clasp, 

The olive branch, which still she deign'd to 
Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in her 

grasp; 
And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky. 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe! 

** Mortal!" — 'twas thus she spake — ** that 

blush of shame 
Proclaims the Briton, once a noble name: 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honor'd less by all, and least by me: 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look 

around, 
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,* 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science 

mourn'd. 
What more I owe, let gratitude attest — 
Know Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer 

came. 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name: 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads. 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds! 
Be ever haii'd with equal honor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none. 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last. 
Plesh, limbs, and blood the former make their 

own, 



The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are 

cross'd: 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost! 
Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame."* 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye: 
Daughter of Jove! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England; England owns him 
Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot, [not: 
Ask'st thou the difference ? P'rom fair Phyle's 

towers 
Survey Boeotia; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard landf 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command ; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy 

plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, [flows, 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'er- 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 
Some east, some west, some everywhere but 

north, 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year! — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth. 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave. 
Shake off" the sordid dust of such a land. 
And shine like children of a happier strand; 
As once of yore in some obnoxious place. 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched 

race." 

** Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, 
*< once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas, this vengeance yet is mine, 



*This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the 
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter O^ym- 
pius, by soinosup...o.-.-d tliO 1 .uitheon, was ti nshea by 
Hadrian; sixteen column:. are suindiiig, uf the most bt.aa'- 
tiful marble and architecture. 



* His Lordship's name, and that of one who no longer 
bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenom; 
above, in a part not far distant, are the torn remnants of 
the basso-relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to re- 
move them. 

t " Irish bastards," according to Sir Caliaghan 
O'Bralaghan. 



'i8ii. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



m 



To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. In many a branding page and burning line; 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 

Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. Perchance the second blacker than the first. 



** First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed; 
Without one spark of intellectual fire. 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire; 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race: 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate. 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell: 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey, [day ! — 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.* 
Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles', 
That art and nature may compare their styles; 
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. 
And marvel at his Lordship's * stone shop ' 

there, f 
Round the throng'd gates shall sauntering 

coxcombs creep, 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye; [skim. 
The room with transient glance appears to 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; 
Exclaims, * These Greeks indeed were proper 

men!' 
Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 
And envies LaXs all her Attic beaux, [these? 
When shall a modern maid have swains like 
Alas, Sir Harry is no Hercules! 
And last of all amidst the gaping crew. 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
Oh, loath'd in life, nor pardon'd in the dust. 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian 

dome. 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. 
And Bratostratos:]: and Elgin shine. 



* Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection " (I sup- 
pose we shall hear of the " Abershaw " and "Jack Shep- 
pard" collection), declared himself "a mere tyro" in 
art. 

t Poor Cribb was sadly puzzled when the marbles 
were first exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it was 
not " a stone shop?" — He was right: it is a shop. 

X Eratostratos, who, in order to mike his name re 
membered, set fire to the Temple of Diana at Ephcsik,. 



*' So let him stand through ages yet unborn, 
P'ix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait. 
But fits thy country for her coming fate. 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar. 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid. 
Or break the compact which herself had made; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield; 
A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

*< Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy 
race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; 
Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head. 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of Northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

<* Look on your Spain! — she clasps the 
hand she hates, [gates. 

But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, [fell. 

Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh, glorious field! by Famine fiercely won. 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
RetrieVed three long Olympiads of defeat? 

** Look last at home — you love not to look 
there. 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 
Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls. 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine 
See all alike of more or less bereft; [prowls. 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit,'* who shall dare to sing? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas! too late: 
Then raves for * * *j to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 



* " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply. 
That lenJs Corruption lighter wings to fly." 

Pops. 



'38 



THE IVAL TZ, 



\%\- 



Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign * log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod. 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

** Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour: 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a 

dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
And pirates barter all that's left behind. f 
No more tlie hirelings, purchased near and far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war; 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores: 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom. 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming 

doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose counsels may have 

weight. , [command; 

V^ain is each voice where tones could once 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, [pile. 
And light with maddening hands the mutual 

** 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign: [vain; 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling 
brands, 

t The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 



And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 

'And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her 

I chains. 

■The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 

; O'er whose gay trappings stern Bcllona smiles : 

I The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 

I The glorious death that consecrates his fall. 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
Hut know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 

iWith death alone are laurels cheaply bought: 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won. 
Though drench'd with gore, his v/oes are but 

begun : 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd 

dame. 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ! 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled 
Thames ? [thine 

Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast. 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life. 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the 
strife." 



THE WALTZ. 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 
1813. 

" Quails in Eurotae ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana chores." Virgil. 

•* Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems: and so she charms the sight, 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads.' 

Drvden's VirgiL 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 

Sir, — I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a Parliament man for a certain 
borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was all 
for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honor. We 
lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and 1 were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway 

*.'::ite of the poll (last dayj, 5. 



i8i3. 



THE WALTZ. 



139 



(a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a 
marriageable (or, as they call it, marJcctable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon 
the family estate, we came up in our old chariot; of which, by the by, my wif; grew so much ashamed in less 
than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, 
if I could drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved for the Honorable Augustus Tiptoe, her 
partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H's. dancing (she was famous for birthnight 
minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see 
a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But judge of my sur- 
prise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking 
gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning 

round, and round, and round, to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the " Black 

Joke," only more " aj^etiuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they 
stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down. But no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, ** quujn 
fafftiliariter^'* (as Terence said when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like 
two cockchafers spitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child 
no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard bat in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would 
call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said, " Lord ! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing !" or 
waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round- 
abouted it till supper-time. Nov.' that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so docs Mrs. H. (though I 
have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps, in a 
morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in soms election ballads, 
and songs in honor of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with 
the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr. Busby (whose recitations I attend, and am mon- 
strous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful " Drury Lane Address "), I com- 
posed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public; whom, nevertheless, I 
heartily despise, as well as the critics. — I am. Sir, yours, &c., &c. Horace Horne.m. 

*My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought 
my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling for the ^z/t« six- 
pence. I grudged the money to a Papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and " No Popery," and quite 
regretting the downfall of the Pope, because we can't burn him any more. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet!* whose 

charms 
Are now extended up from legs to arms; 
Terpsichore! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; 
Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; 
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
If but thy coats are reasonably high; 
Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield: 
Dance forth — sans armotir thou shalt take the 
And own — impregnable to 7nost assaults, [held. 
Thy not too lawfully begotten *< Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young 
hussar. 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war. 
His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his 
brutes : [banners 

Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz I beneath whose 
\ A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
■ On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's 
^ fame,-)- [his aim : 

[' Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man — but gain'd. 



Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's 

breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits. 
To ** energize the object I pursue," 
And give both Belial and his dance their due! 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 
Long be thine import from all duty free. 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; 



* " Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. 
fTo rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the 



reader pleases. The one gained a pretty woman, whom 
he deserved, by fighting for ; and the other has been 
fighting in the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrews- 
bury clock," without gaining anything in that country 
but the title of " the great Lord," and " the Lord ;" 
which savors of profanation, having been hitherto ap- 
pUed only to that Being to whom Te Deums for carnage 
is the rankest blasphemy. It is to be presumed that the 
general will one day return to his Sabine farm, there 
" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain. 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain !" 
The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a sum- 
! mer ; we do more ; we contrive both to conquer and 
jlose them in a shorter season. If "the great Lords'* 
Cincinftatian progress in agriculture be no speedier 
I than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, 
I it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be " ploughing 
with dogs." 

By-the-by, one of this illustrious person's new titles is 
forgotten ; it is, however, worth remembering — " Salva- 
dor del mundo /" credite, poster i I If this be the ap- 
pellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to 



140 



THE IVAL TZ, 



1813. 



In some few qualities alike — for hock |Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, [sets 

Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. iShe came — Waltz came — and with her certain 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art I Of true despatches, and as true gazettes: 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: jThen flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 

Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, ' Which Moniteur nor Mornmg Post can match ; 



And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 



And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news, 
^ ^ , , 1 ^ .1 Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; 

O Germany! how much to thee we owe. one envoy's letters, six composers' airs, [fairs; 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, -^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ Frankfort and from Leipsic 

Ere cursed confederation made hee P ranee s ; j^j^;^^^,^ ^^^^ ^^j^„^^^ womankind. 

And only left US thy d d debts and dances! ^ -i t 1 a -f^-u ^ f^\.^r-„*.^ o „r;„^. r;f 

,^^ , y,. J ,i 1 r. ri r^, Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; lit, 

Of subsidies and Hanover berelt, [lettliT^ i > v, • ♦ ♦. ^^^^^u^iu^f r.^A f^Ko"^i- 

,,, ,, . ,.,, ^ ,, ' T-1 "-J • jBrunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back 

We bless thee still — for George the Third is ..ru \ u „^ ^i 1^ ^^^^ o;«i. ti,^ ,^o^i-of 

.,^,. .11. ji . ^1 .• n Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,, ' 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth.. | Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest 
To Germany, and highnesses serene, | Dehghtful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, [freight, 

Whoowe usmillions— don't weowethequeen?jThe welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 



To Germany, what owe we not besides? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides: 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; 
Who sent us — so be pardon'd all our faults — 
A doxen dukes, some kings, a queen — and 
W^altz. 

But peace to her, her emperor and diet. 
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's **fiat!" 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had 

mails) , 
Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg, was chill'd to sleep; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 



And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
His grand /d!j--j<f«/ excited some remark; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho 

thought 

The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Display'd so much of leg^ or more of neck^ 
Than thou, ambrosial W^altz, when first the 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! [moon 

To you, ye husbands of ten years whose 

brows 
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; 
To you of nine years less, who only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall 

wear, 
'With added ornaments around them roU'd 



Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies; ^^.^^^ ^^^^^ ornaments arouna mem . 

While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,-'- ^^ ^^^-^.^ ^^^^^^ ^^ law-awarded gold: 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match; 
To you, ye children of — whom chance ac- 
cords — • 
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords; 
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; 



the name of a man who has not yet saved them — 
(query, are they worth saving, even in this world ? for, 
according to the mildest modifications of any Christian 
creed, those three words make the odds much against 
them in the next). " Saviour of the world," quotha! — 
it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could 
save a corner of it — his country. Yet this stupid mis- 
nomer, although it shows the near connection between 
superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves 
there can be little to dread from those Catholics (in- i As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide. 



quisitoricj Catholics too] who can confer such an appella- 
tio.i on a Fro'estant. I suppose next year he will be 
entitled the " Virgin Mary ;" if so. Lord George Gordon 
himself would have nothing to object to such liberal 
bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 

* The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 



To gain your own, or snatch another's bride; — 
To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 



thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death by 



sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst i being reduced to wholesome diet I The lamplighters of 
other details omitted in the various despatches of our j London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and 
eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much j the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity 

occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swim- 1 of best moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the 

ming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable) surviving Scythians, — the scarcity will soon, by such cx- 
■ "" " ertions, and a proper attention to the y«a//V)' rather than 



that one entire province perished by famine in the most 
melancholy manner as follows : — In General Rostop 
chin's consummate conflagration, the consumption of 



the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is 
said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine has sub- 



tallow and train oil was so rrcnt, that the market v/as| scribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to ovat 
inadequate to the demand: ;^nd thus one hundred and , suffering manufacturers. 



1813- 



i^he waltz. 



141 



Endearing Waltz ! to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance, fore- 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe! [go 
Waltz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms 

demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray ** piit out the 

light.'^ 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far, or I am much too near; 
And true, though strange. Waltz whispers this 

remark, 
«* My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime! 
Oh, say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound; 
Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape 
Horn [borne? 

With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be 
Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for ♦* Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began 

of yore, [before ! — 

With George the Third's — and ended long 

Though in your daughters' daughters yet you 

thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred 
Fools' Paradise is dull to that you lost, [host; 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No stiff-starch'd stays make meddling fingers 

ache 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage, women in their shape) ;f 



* Dancing girls. 

t It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baus- 
siere's time, ofthe "Sieur de la Croix," that there be 
" no whiskers ;" but how far these are indications of 
valor in the field, or elsewhere, may still be question- 
able. Much may be, and hath been, avouched on both 
sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, 
and soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven —Hannibal 
thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; 
but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts 
on his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even 
the courtiers could abide) — Turenne had whiskers, Marl- 
borough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent 
whiskered; " a r^a/" greatness of mind and whiskers 
may or may not go together; but certainly the different 
occurrences, since the growth ofthe last mentioned, go 
further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of An- 
selm did against long hair in the reign of Henry I. — 



No damsel faints when rather closely press'd. 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd; 
Superfluous hartshorn and reviving salt; 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial, 
*' Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz! — though on thy native 

shore [whore; 

Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a 

Werter — to decent vice though much inclined. 

Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not 

blind- 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris 

ball; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens. 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle 

spreads. 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce. 
And cockneys practise what they can't pro- 
nounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of 
** Waltz!" 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her 

debut: [new,* 

The court, the Regent, like herself, were 
New face for friends, for foes some new re> 

wards; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for 

bread; [fled; 

New coins (most new) to follow those that 
New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
Though Jenkyf wonders at his own success; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'lis true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something 

new; 



Formerly red was a favorite color. See Lodowick Bar- 
rey's comedy of Ram Alley, 1661 ; Act I, Scene I. 

" Taffeta. Now for a wager — What colored beard 
comes next by the window ? 

" Adriana. A black man's, I think. 

" Taffeta, I think not so : 1 think a red, for that is 
most in fashion," 

There is " nothing new under the sun;" but red, then 
2i favorite, has now subsided into di favorite's color. 

* An anachronism— Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz 
are before said to have opened the ball together; the 
bard means (if he means anything) Waltz was not so 
much in vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his 
popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new 
government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their 
glory, much about the same time: of these the comet 
only has disappeared; the other three continue to as- 
tonish us still. — Printer's Devil. 

t Jenkinson. 



142 



THE WAL TZ. 



1813, 



Each new, quite new — (except some ancient 

tricks),* [all new sticks! 

New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, 
With vests or ribbons, deck'd alike in hue. 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in 

blue; 

So saith the muse! my , what say you?f 

Such was the time when Waltz might best 

maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign; 
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such: 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
The ball begins — the honors of the house 
First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Glo'ster's 

mien. 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
From where the garb just leaves the bosom 

free, [to be;:): 

That spot where hearts were once supposed 
Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 
The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced; 
The lady's in return may grasp as much 
As princely paunches offer to her touch, [trip, 
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they 
One hand reposing on the royal hip; 
The other to the shoulder no less royal 
Ascending with affection truly loyal! 
Thus front to front the partners move or stand. 
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand; 
And all in turn may follow in their rank. 
The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank; 
Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 



* "Oh that right should thus overcome viight! " 
Who does not remember the " delicate investigation " 
in the " Merry Wives of Windsor ?" — 

*' Ford. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without 
cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your 
jest; I deserve it. How now ? whither bear you this? 

"Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they 
bear it ? — you were best meddle with buck-washing." 

t The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank 
as he pleases — dicre are several dissyllabic names at his 
service (being already m the Regent's); it would not be 
fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as 
every month will add to the ILst now entered for the 
sweepstakes; — a distinguished consonant is said to be the 
favorite, much against the wishes (jf the knowing 07ies. 

X " We have changed all that," says the Mock Doc- 
tor; 'tis nil gone: Asmc^deus knows where. After all, it is 
of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed 
of; they have Nature's privilege to distribute them as ab- 
surdly as possible. But there are also some men with 
hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phe- 
nomena often mentioned in natural history, viz.: a mass 
of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and when di- 
vided, y(ju find a toad in the centre, lively, and with the 
reputation of being venomous. 



For whose blest surnames — vide Morning Post 
(Or if for that impartial print too late, 
Search Doctors' Commons six months from 

my date) — 
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow. 
The genial contact gently undergo; 
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
If '* nothing follows all this palming work."* 
True, honest Mirza! — you may trust my 

rhyme — 
Something does follow at a fitter time; 
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man 
In private may resist him — if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more! 
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste 

and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still! [sprite 
Thou ghost of Queensberry! whose judging 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the 

frame, 
W^ith half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame: 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast— 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought. 
For what our morals are to be, or ought; 
Who wdsely wish the charms you view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so 

cheap? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing 

side. 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact 

warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blas- 
pheme? _ 



* In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and su- 
perfluous, question — literally put, as in the text, by a 
Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera. — Vide 
Morter's Travels. 



1 822. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 143 



Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive! — at every ball 
My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall; 
My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should neier transpire; 



Some ages hence our genealogic tree 

Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name 

amends, 
Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

suggested by the composition so entitled by the author of '* wat tyler." 
Published in the *' Liberal." 1822. 

" A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 



PREFACE. 

It hath been wisely said, that ** One fool makes many;'*" and it hath been poetically observed— 
" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where he never was before, and never will 
be again, the following poem would not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his 
own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be ivorse. The gross flattery, the 
dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, and impious cant, of the poem by the author of" Wat Tyler," are 
something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself— containing the quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous Laureate to 
draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School,'' the which he doth recommend to the notice of the Legislature; 
thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there exists anywhere, except in his 
imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense vanity ? The truth is, that 
there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have " talked of >^/;;2/ for they laughed con- 
sumedly.'* 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that ihey, in their 
individual capacities, have done more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in any one year, than 
Mr, Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and this is saying a great deal. But I 
have a few questions to ask. 

istly. Is Mr. Southey the author of IVat Tyler ? 

2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
blasphemous and seditious publication ? 

Zdly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament," a rancorous renegado" ? 

^thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regicide staring him in the face ? 

And ^thly. Putting the four preceding items together, with what conscience dare he call the attention of the 
laws to the publications of others, be they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon 
the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publica- 
tions, as he was of yore in the Anti-jfacobiii by his present patrons. Hence all this "skimble-scamble stuff" 
about " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of him — *'qualis ab incept o.''^ 

If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following poem, they 
may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexameters, as he has written everything else, for aught that 
the writer cared— had they been upon another subject. But to attempt to canonize a monarch who, whatever 
were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign 
passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France, — like all other exaggera- 
tion, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this new Vision, h.\s public cdLveer 
will not be more favorably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the 
nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and 
(as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more 
tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in the nexf 
world, is like his own judgments in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. } 
don't think that there is much more to say at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 



144 



JHE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



1822. 



p. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, an§.els, and spiritual persons discourse in this Vision. But, for precedents upon such points, 1 must refer 
hirci io¥'\Q.\A\ng's Jour ney yrof/i this World to t lie next, and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in 
Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or dis- 
cussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said for the 
Laureate, who hath thought proper to make ilim talk, not " like a school^ divine," but like the unscholar-like Mr. 
Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of heaven ; and Chaucer's JVi/e 0/ Bath, Pulci's Morga,nie 
Mag:giore, Swift's Tare 0/ a Tub, and the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with 
which saints, &c., may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious. — Q. R. 

*^* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, threatens, 1 understand, a reply to this 
our answer It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the meantime have acquired a little more judg- 
ment, properly so-called : otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate Jacobins furnish rich 
rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much 
}-rivate renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and not long ago, the Poet Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, 
one of his fugitive lyrics upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could suppose that in this same Gebir 
the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person 
than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — ^yea, even George the Third ! See also how personal Savage 
becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, 
called up to his view ; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 

Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 

Listen him yonder who, bound down supine, 

Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 

He too amongst my ancestors I hate 

The despot, but the dastard I despise. 

Was he our countryman ?" 

"Alas, O king ! 
Ib«ria bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east" 
" He was a warrior, then, nor fear'd the gods ?" 
" Gebii, he feai d.the demons, not the gods. 
Though them indeed his daily face adored : 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander d, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh, madness of mankind ! address'd, adored !" — 

Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his 
grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it ; but certainly these teachers of "great moral les-wns," 
are apt to be found in strange company. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate; 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late: 

Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era <* eighty-eight," 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
And '' a pull all together," as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another way. 



The angels all were singing out of tune. 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two. 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal 
blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 



III. 
The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 

Finding their charges past all care below; 
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 

Save the recording angel's black bureau; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 

With such rapidity of vice and woe. 
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. [quills, 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years. 

That he was forced, against his will no doubt 
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers). 

For some resource to turn himself about, 
And claim the help of his celestial peers, 

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 
By the increased demand for his remarks: 
Six angels and twelve saints were named his 

• clerks. 



lS22. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



HS 



This was a handsome board — at least for 
heaven ; 

And yet they had even then enough to do, 
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew; 
Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven. 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust, 
The' page was so besmear'd with blood and 
dust. 

VI. 

This by the way; 'tis not mine to record 
What angels shrink from : even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd. 
So surfeited with the infernal revel: 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword. 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves inser- 
tion — 

'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace. 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont. 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
With nothing but new names subscribed 
upon't: 

'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, 

** With seven heads and ten horns," and all 

in front, [are born 

Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 



In the first year of freedom's second dawn 
Died George the Third; although no tyrant, 
one [drawn 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with- 
Left him nor mental nor external sun: 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew^ from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind. 

One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 



He died! his death made no great stir on 
earth : [fusion 

His bmial made some pomp; there was pro- 

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
Of aught but tears — save those shed by col- 
lusion, [worth; 

For these things may be bought at their true 
Of elegy there was the due infusion — 

Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and 
banners, 

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 



X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the 
shov/, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which 
pierced the pall; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 
So mix his body with the dust! It might 

Return to what it must far sooner, were 
The natural compound left alone to fight 

Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 
But the unnatural balsams merely blight 

What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 
Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He's dead — and upper earth with him has 
done; 

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, 
Or lapidary's scrawl, the world has gone 

For him, unless he left a German will. 
But where's the proctor who will ask his son? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
Except that household virtue, most uncom- 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. [mon, 

XIII. 
** God save the King!" It is a large economy 

In God to save the like; but if He will 
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still; 
I hardly know, too, if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing, with some slight restric- 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction, [tion, 

XIV. 

I know this is unpopular; I know [damn'd 
'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so; 

I know my catechism; I know we're cramin M 

With the best doctrines till we quite o'erilow; 

I know that all save England's church Lave 

shamm'd; 

And that the other twice two hundred churches 

And synagogues have made a da?nn\. bad 

purchase. 

XV. 

God help us all! God help me too! I an), 
I God knows, as helpless as the devil can \v ish, 
And not a whit more difficult to damn, 



146 



THE VI SI OX OF JUDGMENT, 



1822. 



Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
Or to th« butcher to purvey the lamb; 

Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish, 
As one day will be that immortal fry 
Of almost everybody born to die. 

XVI. 

Sain, t-krier sat by the celestial gate, [came 
And nodded o'er his keys; when lo! there 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and 
flame; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 
Which would have made all save a saint 
exclaim; 
Bat he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, ** There's another star gone out, I 
think!" 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his 

eyes — [nose; 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd and rubb'd his 

** Saint porter," said the angel, <* prithee 

rise I" [glows 

Waving a goodly w^ing, which glow'd, as 

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly 

dyes; [the matter? 

To which the Saint replied, ** Well, what's 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?" 



*< No," quoth the cherub; '* George the Third 

is dead." [the apostle; 

** And who is George the Third ?" replied 

<* Whut George? What Third?'' **The King 

of England," said [to jostle 

The angel. *'W^ell! he won't find kings 

Him on his way; but does he wear his head? 

Because the last we saw here had a tussle. 

And ne'er would have got into heaven's good 

graces. 
Mad he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 
** He was, if I remember, king of France; 

That head of his, which could not keep a 
crown 
(ift eartli, yet ventured in my face to advance 

A cJaim to those of martyrs — like my own. 
If I had had my gword, as I had once 

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; 
But having but my keys^ and not my brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

* And then be set up such a headless howl, 
Tkat all the saints came oirt and took him in ; 



And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl; 

That fellow Paul — the parvenu! The skin 
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 

In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 
So as to make a martyr, never sped 
Better than did that weak and wooden head. 



** But had it come up here upon its shoulders. 
There would have been a different tale to 
tell; 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk: it may be very well. 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 
The angel answer'd, ** Peter! do not pout: ^ 

The king who comes has head and all entire, 
And never knew much what it was about — 

He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 

My business and your own is not to inquire 
Int=o such matters, but to mind our cue — 
Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind. 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or 

Inde, [old man 

Or Thames, or Tweed), and midst them an 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind. 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host, 
A Spirit of a difterent aspect waved [coast 

His wings, like thunder-clouds above some 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks 

is paved; [toss'd; 

His brow was like the deep when tempest - 
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 

Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 

And where he gazed, a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate. 
As made St. Peter wish himself within : 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate. 
And sweated through his apostolic skin: 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor. 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 



l822. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



147 



XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled all together, 

Like birds when soars the falcon; and they 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, [felt 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 

Around their poor old charge; who scarce 

knew whither [dealt 

His guards had led him, though they gently 

With royal manes (for by many stories. 

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 

Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges [new 

Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 

O'er the North Pole, the same seen, when ice- 
bound, [Sound." 

By Captain Parry's crew, in ** Melville's 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing 
fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas the archangel Michael: all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show. 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 



Michael flew forth in glory and in good, 
A goodly work of Him from whom all glory 

And good arise; the portal pass'd — he stood; 
Before him the young cherubs and saints 
hoary — 

(I say youngs begging to be understood 

By looks, not years, and should be very sorry 

To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 

But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 

That archangelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 



The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service. 
Intrude, however glorified and high; [durst 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill; 

Such was their power that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their champ clos the 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; [clay. 
And that ** the sons of God," like those of 

Must keep him company; and we might show 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the powers 

Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 

If Job be allegory or a fact. 

But a true narrative; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act, 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick, 

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision. 



The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven : like eastern thresholds 
is [o'er. 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect; though they did not kiss. 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Bright- 
ness [ness. 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great polite- 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau. 
But with a graceful Oriental bend. 

Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 

He turn'd as to an equal, not too low. 
But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend 

With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 

Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 



148 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



1822. 



XXXVII. 

He merely bent Iiis diabolic brow 

An instant; and then raising it, he stood 

In act to assert his right or wrong, and. show 
Cause why King George by no means could 
or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 



I And evil by their own internal curse, - 

! Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

I XLII. 

**Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, 

poor worm [reign. 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to 

The world and he both wore a difterent form. 



With better sense and hearts, whom history ^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^.^^^ ^^^ ^H ^^^ ^..^^^.y pj^^^ 



[intentions."* of ocean call'd him king: through many a 
' paved hell with their good storm 

XXXVIII. jHis isles had floated on the abyss of time; 

^ What wouldst thou with this \ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^S^ ^""^^^^^ ^^^^^ them for their clime. 
[What ill I XLIII. 

Now dead, and brought before the Lord? a He came to his sceptre young; he leaves it 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, old: [realm. 

Speak! and; i^ook to the state in which he found his 



mentions. 
Who long have 



Michael began 
man. 



That thou canst claim him? 
do thy will. 
If it be just: if in this earthly span 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say. 
And he is thine; if not, let him have way." 



** Michael I" replied the Prince of Air, "even 
here 

Before the gate of Him thou servest, must 
I claim my subject: and will make appear 

That as he was my worshipper in dust. 
So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne 
He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

*' Look to our earth, or rather mhie : it was, 
Once, more thy Master's: but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas. 
Need He thou servest envy me my lot: 

W^ith all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round Him, He may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things: 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 



And left it: and his annals too behold. 

How to a minion* first he gave the helm: _^ 

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, f| 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 

The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but 
glance ^ 

Thine eye along America and France. « 

XLIV. I 

'* 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last ^ 

(I have the workmen safe); but as a tool 
wSo let him be consumed. From out the past 

Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 

Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' 
school 
Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign 
More drenched with gore, more cumber'd with 
the slain. 

XLV. 
** He ever warr'd with freedom and the free; 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes. 
So that they utter'd the word * Liberty !' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. 
History was ever stain 'd as his will be [Whose 

With national and individual woes? 
I grant his household abstinence; I grant 



* And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 

Assert my right as lord; and even had XLVI. 

I suck an inclination, 'twere (as you [so bad,!., i ^^ow he was a constant consort; own 

Well know) superfluous: they are grown! He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
That hell has nothing better left to do \^\\ ^^is is much, and most upon a throne; 

His temperance, if at Apicius' board. 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
No saint in the course of his religious warfare was ^ g'"^'^^ him all the kindest can accord : 
more sensible of the unhappy failure of pious resolves And this was well for him, but not for those 
than Dr. Johnson : he said one day, talking to an ac-, Millions who found him what oppression chose. 
quaintance on this subject, ' Sir, hell is paved with good, -^ — 



Than leave them to themselves! 
more mad 



so much' 



intentions.'" 



♦ Lord Buto. 



lS22. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



149 



*« The New World shook him off; the Old 
yet groans 

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones 

To all his vices, without what begot 
Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones 

Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
A lesson which shall be retaught them, wake 
Upon the thrones of earth : but let them quake ! 

XLVIII. 

** Five millions of the primitive,* who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, 
implored 
A part of that vast all they held of old — 

Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold 

Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
The foe to Catholic participation 
In all the licence of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 
*< True! he allow'd them to pray God: but as 

A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
Which would have placed them upon thesame 
base [awe." 

With those who did not hold the saints in 
But here Saint Peter started from his place. 

And cried, ** You may the prisoner with- 
draw; 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 

L. 
<* Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure). 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!" 

*< Saint!" replied Satan, **you do well to 

avenge [dure; 

The wrongs he made your satellites en- 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed: ** Good saint! and 
devil ! 
Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil; 
Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression. 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
Even saint's sometimes forget themselves 
in session. 
Have you not more to say?" — **No." — "If 

you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 



* Romjin Catholics. 



LII. 
Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand. 

Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
Clouds farther off than we can understand. 

Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 

In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls [station 

Of Hell assign'd, butwhere their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the 
same. 

LIV. 

They're proud of this — as very well they may. 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins; or like to an entre 
Up the back stairs, or such freemasonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay. 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 



When the great signal ran from heaven to 
hell- 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
How much time it takes up, even to a second. 

For every ray that travels to dispel [beacon'd. 
The fogs of London, through which, dimly 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 

If that the summer is not too severe. 

LVI. 

I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute; 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 

But then their telegraph is less sublime: 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for theii 
own clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 
Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd 
(I've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the iEgean, ere a squall); it near'd, 



150 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



lS!22. 



And, growing bigger, took another guise: 

Like an aerial ship, it tack'd and steer'd, 
Or ivas steer'd (I am doubtfulof the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza 
stammer; I 

LVIII. 
But take your choice); and then it grew a 
cloud ; 
And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud! No land ere saw a crowd 
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw 
these : [loud 

They shadow'd with their myriads space; their 
And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
And realized the phrase of ** hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

llerecrash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore: 

There Paddy brogued ** By Jasus!" — *' What's 

your wull?" [ghosts swore 

The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French 

In certain terms I shan't translate in full. 
As the first coachman will; and midst the 
war. 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

<* Our President is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch and 
Dane; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and 
trades. 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign. 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades: 
All summon'd by this grand ** subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host he first grew pale. 
As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, 
lie turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail, 

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic sky- 
In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, [light 
Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan: ** Why, 
My good old friend — for such I deem you, 
though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal fuc: 

Our difference is folitical^ and I 



Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
You know my great respect for you : and this 
Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — - 

LXIII. 

'* Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses? I did not mean 

That you should halfof earth and hell produce: 
'Tis even superfluous, since two honest. 

True testimonies are enough: we lose [clean, 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence: if we 

Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, **To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 

I can have fifty better souls than this [through 
With far less trouble than we have gone 

Already; and I merely argued his 

Late Majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him; I've kings enough below, God 
knows!" 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd ** multi- 
faced " [call 
By multo-scribbling Southey). **Then we'll 
One or two persons of the myriads placed 

Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael: '* Who may be so 

graced [who shall 

As to speak first? there's choice enough — 

It be?" Then Satan answer'd, <* There are 

many: [^^riy," 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right or 
wrong. 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds [all 
Assembled, and exclaim'd, ** My friends of 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst 
these clouds; 
So let's to business: why this general call? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! 

Saint Pcter^ may I count upon your vote?" 



lS22. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



151 



** Sir," replied Michael, ** you mistake; these 
things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met: so now you know." 
*'Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, ** are cherubs; and that soul 
below [mind 

Looks much like George the Third, but to my 
A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?" 

LXIX. 

*< He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

** If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — "Some," 
Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid 
in lead 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, [sun." 

Have told them what I thought beneath the 

LXX. 

^^ Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel, 
wWhy," 

Replied the spirit, **since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 

With all his Lords and Commons: in the 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since [sky 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

** Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton;* and shall be un- 
willing 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
Since they were both damn'd long ago, and 
still in 

Their place below: for me, I have forgiven. 

And vote his habeas corpus into heaven." 

LXXII. 

<< Wilkes," said the devil, '/ I understand all 
this; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died. 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide. 
He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your 

labor. 
For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 

* George III.'s Ministers. 



LXXIII. 
*' However, I knew what to think of it, 

When I beheld you Ir your jesting way. 
Flitting and whispering round about the spit 

Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 

His pupil; I knew what to think, I say: 
That fellow even in hell breeds further ills: 
I'll have him gagged — 'twas one of his own 
bills. 

LXXIV. 

"Call Junius!" From the crowd a shadow 
stalk'd, [squeeze. 

And at the name there was a geaeral 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease, [balk'd. 
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be 

As we shall see), and jostled hands and 
knees, [der, 

Like wind compress'd and pent within a blad- 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 



The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-hair'd 
figure. 

That look'd as it had been a shade on earth; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor^ 

But nought to mark its breeding or its birth; 
Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they [say. 
Changed every instant — to what^ none could 
LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the featureis 
were; [guess; 

The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to 
They varied like a dream — now here, now 
there ; 
And several people swore from out the press. 
They knew him perfectly; and one could 
He was his father; upon which another [sweat- 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's broth^: 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or ksight. 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest 
A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full &jght 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased: 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 
LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one^ 
Prosto! his face changed, and he was 
another; 



152 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



1822. 



And when that change was hardly well put on,| Exaggeration? Something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast 

Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
Of passion?" *' Passion!'^ cried the phantom 

dim, 
<* I loved my country, and I hated him. 



It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to 
t'other; 
Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
At this epistolary '< Iron Mask." 
LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
** Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) : then you might deem 
That he was not even one; now many rays 

Were flashing round him; and now a thick 
steam [days : 

Hid him from sight — like fogs on London 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's 
fancies. 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 
I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own: 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne. 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown: 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear! 
'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really^ truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads: and books, we 
Are filled as well without the latter too : [see. 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will 
bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

** And who and what art thou ?" the Archan- 
gel said. 
'* P^or that you may consult my title-page," 

Replied this mighty shadow of a shade: 
If I have kept my secret half an age, 



LXXXIV. 
** What I have written, I have written: let 

The rest be on his head or mine !" vSo spoke 
Old ** Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking 

Away he melted in celestial smoke. [yet. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 

To call George Washington and John 
Home Tooke, [heard 

And Franklin." But at this time there was 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
Of cherubim appointed to that post. 

The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 

Some trouble. When his burden down he 

laid, [not a ghost!" 

«< What's this ?" cried Michael; *< why, 'tis 

<* I know it," quoth the incubus; <* but he 

Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 

'* Confound the renegado! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy; one would 
think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point: while hovering o'er the 
brink 

Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd), 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

'< The former is the Devil's Scripture, and 
i The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair 
I Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
i I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 



I scarce shall tell it now. 

braid," 
Continued Michael, **George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer'd, <* You had 

better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter: 

LXXXIII. 

** My charges upon record will outlast 

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb. 
** Repent'st thou not," said Michael, '* 
some past 



Canst thou up- And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air- 
At least a quarter it can hardly be: 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 



LXXXVIII. 

Here Satan said, ** I know this man of old. 
And have expected him for some time here; 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
" I Or more conceited in his petty sphere: 
of But surely it was not worth while to fold 
I Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 



l822. 



THE VISION- OF JUDGMENT. 



153 



" We had the poor wretch safe (without being 
bored 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

** But since he's here, let's see what he has 
done." 

**Done!" cried Asmodeus; *' he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon, 

x\nd scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 

prates?" [to say; 

** Let's liear," quoth Michael, *' what he has 

You know we're bound to that in every way," 

XC. 
Now the bard , glad to get an audience, which 

By no means often was his case below, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and 
pitch 

His voice into that awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 
But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay, 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way. 
And cried, <* For God's sake stop, my friend; 

'twere best — 
Non Di, non homines — you know the rest," 

XCII. 
A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detesta- 
tion: 
The angels had of course enough of song 

When upon service; and the generation 
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, 
'* What! what! [that!" 

Pye* come again ? No more — no more of 

XCIII. 
The tumult grew; an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate. 
When Castlereagh has been up long enough 

(Before he was First Minister of State, 
I mean — the slaves hear now) ; some cried, 
*«Of^, off!" 
As at a farce, till, grown quite desperate. 



* George III.'s Poet Laureate, 



The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather 
grave. 

Was by no means so ugly as his case; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be. 
Quite a poetic felony ** de j-^." 

xcv. 
Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the 
noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides : except some grumbling voice 

Which now and then will make a slight 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice [inroad 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad 
With all the attitudes of self-applause, [cause, 

XCVI. 

He said — (I only give the heads') — he said, 
He meant no harm in scribblmg; 'twas his 

Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, [way 

Of which he butter'd both sides: 'twould 

delay [dread), 

Too long the assembly (he was pleas'd to 
And take up rather more time than a day, 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

**Wat Tyler," ** Rhymes on Blenheim," 
** Waterloo." 



He had written praises of a regicide; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried [clever; 

Aloud — a scheme less moral than 'twas 
Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin — [his skin. 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd 

XCVIII. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory: he had call'd 

Reviewing ** the ungentle craft," and then* 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had been 
maul'd: [prose. 

He had written much blank verse, and blanker 

And more of both than anybody knows. 



* See Li/e of Henry Kirke White* 



154 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



1822. 



xcix. 
He had written Wesley's life: — here turning 
round 

To Satan, '' Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 

\Vith notes and preface, all that most allures 
The pious purchaser; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers; 
So let me have the proper documents, 
That I may add you to my other saints." 

c. 
Satan bow'd, and was silent. <* Well, if you 

With amiable modesty decline 
My offer, what says Michael? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more 
Mine is a pen of all work : not so new [divine. 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CI. 

" But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you 
shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition, [and all. 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, 
Like King Alfonso.* When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

CII. 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints. 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents. 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang 

Like lightning, off from his ** melodious! 
twang. "f 

* Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said that' 
' had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he I 
would have spared the Maker some absurdities," | 

t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which dis- i 
appeared " with a curious perfume and a most melo- 
dious twang:" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 2*5. ' 



cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell; 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their 
pinions: 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own 
dominions — 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his own opinions); 
Michael took refuge in his trump; but, lo. 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! 

CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys. 

And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown; 
A different web being by the destinies 

Woven for the I>aureate's final wreath, whene'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

cv. 

He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,* 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 

Or wisp that flits o^er a morass; he lurks. 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. 

In his own den, to scrawl some ** Life" or 
** Vision," rj^"-" 

As Welborn says — '' the devil turn'd precis- 

CVI. 
As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 

Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
Which kept my optics free from all delusion. 

And show'd me what I in my turn have 
All I saw further, in the last confusion, [shown; 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven 
for one; 
And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 

* A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; \t 
then floats, as most people know. 




A 



THE AGE OF BRONZE; 

OR, 

CARMEN SECULARS ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 

** Impar Congressus Achilli." 



The '< good old times " — all times when old 
are good — j 

Are gone; the present might be if they would;' 
Great things have been, and are, and greater. 
Want little of mere mortals but their will : [still 
A wider space, a greener field, is given 
To those who play their '* tricks before high 

heaven/' 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough — for what? — to weep 
again ! 

II. 
All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much. 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
As the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals! a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave. 
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave, 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is 

old 
Of ** dust to dust;" but half its tale untold:! 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm ' 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its 
Varied above, but still alike below; [form,' 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though un- 
known — [appear 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — ^half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and 

birth, 
And desolation; while his native Greece 



Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 

He **wept for worlds to conquer!" he who 

ne'er 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown. 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his 

throne. 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far. 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw 

his car; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with 

wings, [of late. 

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd 
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? 
Yes! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild; 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes 

were thrones; [bones? 

Whose table earth — whose dice were human 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; 
Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings? 
Behold the scales in w^hich his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues ! 
A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
[The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great. 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The paltry gaoler and the prying spy. 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? 
Plunged in a dungeon he had still been great; 
How low, how little, was this middle state. 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear! 
Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill. 
His food and wine were doled out duly still; 



156 



THE AGE OF BROXZE. 



Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his 

cause, 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's ap- 
plause, [heart 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; [face 
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
None stand by his low bed — though even the 
mind [kind; 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes man- 
Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain. 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign. 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to be! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's 

ape; 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
What though his gaoler, duteous to the last. 
Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him 
Refusing one poor line along the lid, [fast, 
To date the birth and death of all it hid; 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore: 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast; 
When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise. 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies. 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust. 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust. 
And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
But what are these to him? Can glory's lust 
Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust? 
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists; 
Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists: 
Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle. 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this; but France shall feel the 

want 
Of this last consolation, though so scant: 
Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones. 
To rear above a pyramid of thrones j 



I Or carried onward in the battle's van, 
To form, like Guesclin's* dust, her talisman. 
But be it as it is — the time m^y come [drum. 
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's 

V. 

Oh heaven! of which he was in power a fea- 
ture; 
Oh earth! of which he was a noble creature; 
Thou isle! to be remember'd long and well, 
1 That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning 

flights 
Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! [done ! 
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds out- 
Alas! why pass'd he too the Rubicon — 
The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights. 
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
And shook within their pyramids to hear 
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 
While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood; 
Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 
W^ith clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren 
To re -manure the uncultivated land! [sand, 
Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid! 
Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall! 
Ye race of Frederic! — Frederics but in name 
And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame; 
W^ho, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 
First, and but rose to follow! Ye who dwell 
Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt! 
Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 
But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 
Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 
Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name, 
Thy sigh for freedom, thy long -flowing tear, 
That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 
Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 
Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 
The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 
Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 
Moscow! thou limit of his long career, [tear 
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen 
To see in vain — he saw thee — how? with spire 
And palace fuel to one common fire. 
To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 



* Guesclin died during the siege of a city: it surren- 
dered, and the keys were brought and laid upon his bier, 
50 that the place might appear rendered to his ashes. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE, 



157 



To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 
The prince his hall — andMoscow was no more ! 
Sublimest of volcanos! Etna's flame [tame; 
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's 
Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height: 
Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
To come, in which all empires shall expire. 

Thou other element! as strong and stern, 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks! 
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth — their blood flows faster than her 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains [wines ; 
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken [saken. 
Her offspring chill'd; its beams are now for- 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
What shall return ? the conqueror's broken car ! 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die: 
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before; 
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd 
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side [yield. 
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 
And backward to the den of his despair 
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair! 

Oh ye ! and each and all ! Oh France ! who 
found [ground, 

Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile 
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill [Isle, 
Look'd down o'er trampled Paris! and thou 
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 
Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 
Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride! 
Oh, France ! retaken by a siilgle march, [arch! 
Whose path was through one long triumphal 
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo! 
Which proves how fools may have their for- 
tune too, 
Won half by blunder, half by treachery: 
Oh, dull Saint Helen! with thy gaoler nigh — 
Hear! hear Prometheus from his rock appeal* 



*I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus 
in iEschylus, when he was left alone by his attendants, 
and before the arrival of the chorus of Sea-nymphs. 



To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and gloiy, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd: 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven; 

The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 

Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their decent dignity of fall. 

Yet Vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought. 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to 

heaven, [riven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath 
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his 

birth; 
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air: 
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! [war 

Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave. 
Who burst the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be — the spark's awaken'd — lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow; 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
Revives — and where? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
Where Cort«s and Pizarro's banner flew, 
The infant world redeems her name of *'A't'7£;." 
'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh. 
To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
Where Greece was — No! she still is Greece 

once more. [breast. 

One commoM cause makes myriads of one 
Slaves of the East, or helots of the West: 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd. 
The self-same standard streams o'er either 

world : 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord; 
The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 



158 



THE AGE OE BRONZE. 



Young Freedom plumes ihe crest of each 

cacique; | 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, ; 
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; | 
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides ad-| 

vance, [France, i 

Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of 
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would 
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main: [^^.in 

But driven from thence a while, yet not for aye. 
Break o'er th' /Egean, mindful of the day 
Of Salamis! there, there the waves arise, 
Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
By Christians, unto whom they gave their 
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, [creed. 
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 
The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey; — 
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece 

can show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is well: Greeks only should free 

Greece, 
Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should^he autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better slill serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; 
Better still toil for masters, tlian await. 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the hrst courtier in the Czar's regard; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes. 
Better succumb even to their own despair. 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

VII. 
But not alone within the hoariest clime 
Where Freedom dates her birtlf with that of 
Time, [crowd 

And not alone where, plung'd in night, a 
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 
The dawn revives; renown'd, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; 
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both; 
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
Tlie warlike fathers of a thousand years. 
That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 



Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage; 
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 
Back tc th« barbarous realm from whence 
they sprung. [their sway. 

But these are gone — their faith, their swords, 
Yet left more anti- christian foes than they; 
The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest. 
The Inquisition, with her burning feast. 
The faith's red *' auto," fed with human fuel, 
While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel. 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was 
The long degenerate noble ; the debased [sloth ; 
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm; 
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd; 
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade; 
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 
Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore; 
The very language which might vie vrith 
Rome's, [homes, 

And once was known to nations like their 
Neglected or forgotten: — such was Spain; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these home invaders, felt and fee] 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain 
Revive the cry! — '* lago! and close Spain!"* 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — . 
The exterminating war, the desert plain. 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ^. 
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
Waving her more than Amazonian blade; 
The knife of Arragon,f Toledo's steel; 
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan; 
The Andalusian courser in th-e van; 
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid; 
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid: — 
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Ad- 
vance, [France! 
And win — not Spain! but thine own freedom, 



cry. 



' St. lago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war- 

t The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use 
of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former 
French wars. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



159 



VIII. 

But lo! a Congress! What! that hallow'd 
name [same 

Which freed the Atlantic! May we hope the 
For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar; [far 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But "duho compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
The blest Alliance, which says three are all! 
An earthly trinity! which wears the shape 
Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
A pious unity! in purpose one — 
To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; 
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 
Cared little, so that they were duly fed; 
But these, more hungry, must have something 

more — 
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
Ahjhov/ much happier were good ^sop's frogs 
Than we! for ours are animated logs. 
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
And crushing nations with a stupid blow; 
All duly anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
With their imperial presence shine on thee ! 
Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
The vaunted tomb of ** all the Capulets;" 
Thy Scaligers — for what was **Dog the Great," 
** Can Grande " (which I venture to translate,) 
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, 
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; 
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; 
And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate; 
Thy good old man,* whose world was all within 
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in; 
Would that the royal guests it girds about 
Were so far like, as never to get out! 
Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame. 
To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 

* Claudian's famous old man of Verona. 



Tht comedy is not upon the stage; 

The ihow is rich in ribandry and stars. 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free. 

X. 

Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb Czar, 
The autocrat of waltzes and of war! 
As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
And just as fit for flirting as the helm; 
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit; 
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw. 
But harden'd back whene'er the morning's 
With no objection to true liberty, [raw; 

Except that it would make the nations free. 
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace! 
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free 

Greece! 
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain! 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the South long hid! 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world 

knows. 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son! 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; 
And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine. 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.* 
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; 
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields? 
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir 

hordes. 
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout. 
Than follow headlong in the^fatal route, [pure 
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are 
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : 
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe : 
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago; 
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher 
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey, [prey? 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun; 



* The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called 
the Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mus- 
sulmans ou the banks of the river Pruth, 



i6o 



7^1 IE AGE OE jJROiXZE. 



But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
Rather a worm than suck an Alexander! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope: 
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an '' honest man." 

XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
0{ lie plus tiltra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries.^ and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
Hears *' the lie " echo for his answer round? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to 

<* hear!" 
A Gallic senate hath more ton'^ue than ear; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot. 
To listening long and interrupting not? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant " x\ction, action!" 

XII. 
But where's the monarch? hath he dined? or 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? [yet 
Have revolutionary pates risen, 
And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison? 
Have discontented movements stirr'd the 

troops? [soups? 

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous 
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded 
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 
[ read all France's treason in her cooks! 
Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say. 
Desirable to be the '< Desire"? [abode, 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green 
Apician table, and Horatian ode, 
To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
And love much rather to be scourged than 

school'd? 
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
For thrones : the table sees thee better placed : 
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 
To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
To talk of lette'S, and to know by heart 
One half \.\\Q poet's, ail ihe gourmand's art: 
A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
And gentle when digestion may permit; — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 



XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? 
** Arts — arms — and George — and glory, and 

the isles — [smiles — 

And happy Britain — wealth, and Freedom's 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the 

world!* [yet 

And Waterloo — and trade — and — (hush! not 
A syllable of imposts or of debt) — 
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit agoose-quiU t'other day — 
And ** pilots who have weather'd every 

storm," — 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name 

Reform). 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more; 
Found in so many volumes far and near. 
There's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with 

rhyme. 
Even this thy genius. Canning! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, 
And never, even in that dull House, couldst 

tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more: 
Nay, not so much; — they hate thee, man, 

because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's 

hollo. 
And where he leads the duteous pack will 

follow; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure. 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud; 
But what of that? the animal shows blood. 



Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now /^wcountry gentlemen? 



*•' Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 
The Roman applies it to one who merely was impcriouj 
to his acquaintance. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



i6i 



The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For what were all these country patriots born? 
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? 
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
And must ye fall with every ear of grain? 
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 
lie was your great Triptolemus; his vices 
Destroy 'd but realms, and still maintain 'd your 
He amplified to every lord's content [prices; 
The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
And lowe-r wheat to such desponding quarters? 
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? 
The man was worth much more upon his 
throne. [spilt, 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were 
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; 
But l:)read was high, the farmer paid his way, 
And acres told upon the appointed day. 
But where is now the goodly audit ale? 
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail? 
The farm which never yet was left on hand? 
The marsh reclaim'dto most improving land? 
The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace! 
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill; 
The landed interest — (you may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
The land self-interest groans from shore to 

shore. 
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes. 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes. 
And patriotism, so delicately nice. 
Her loaves will lower to the market price; 
For ah ! ** the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 
And nought remains of all the millions spent. 
Excepting to gro\v moderate and content. 
They who are not so, /^a^ their turn — and turn 
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn; 
Now let their virtue be its own reward. 
And share the blessings which themselves pre- 
pared. 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm; 
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling 

hands, 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands; 
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle — why? for rent! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why? 
for r»nt ! 



They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they 
I swore, they meant [rent ! 

To die for England — why then live? — for 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! 
Their love of country, millions all misspent. 
How reconcile? by reconciling rent! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
No; down with everything, and up with rent! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discon 

tent. 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy de- 
Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands, [mands 
Such, landlords! was your appetite for war. 
And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! 
What! would they spread their earthquake 
even o'er cash? [crash? 

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
And found on 'Change a FttndingWo^\)\\2i\\ 
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes. 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring. Tithes; 
;The prelates go to — where the saints have 
jxAnd proud pluralities subside to one; [gone, 
I Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
jToss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
I Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants. 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
** Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be 

wise;" 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 
The price of taxes and of homicide; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray, who viade it high ? 



Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks. 
The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
Where Midas might again his wish behold 
In real paper or imagined gold. 
That magic palace of Alcina shows 
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. 
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the 

stake. 
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines. 
Or peace, or plenty, corn or oil, or wines; 
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
Nor (save in paper shekek) ready money: 



I 62 



THE AGE OE BROXZE. 



Bnt let us not to own the truth refuse, 
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? 
Those parted with their teeth to good King 
John, [own; 

And now, yc kings I they kindly draw your 
All states, all things, all sovereigns they con- 
trol, 
And waft a loan "from Indus to the pole." 
The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
Nor these alone: Columbia feels no less 
Fresh speculations follow each success; 
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain. 
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia 
march; [arch, 

'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's 
Two JeTfs, a chosen p«ople, can command 
In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old: 
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earth to them? 
A congress forms their *« New Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and orders both invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
\Yho spit not ** on their Jewish gaberdine," 
Brit honor them as portion of the show — 
(W^here now, oh. Pope! is thy forsaken toe? 
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks? 
Or has it ceased to *'kick against the pricks?") 
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
To cut from nations' hearts their ** pound of 
flesh," 

XVI, 

Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite 
All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
I speak not of the sovereigns — they're alike, 
A common coi* as ever mint could strike; 
But those who sway the puppets, pull the 

strings, 
Hav^ more of motley than their heavy kings. 
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 
While Europe wonders at the vast design: 
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
Caj<oles: there Wellington forgets to fight; 
There Chateauljriand forms new books of 

martyrs;* 
And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars; 

* Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the 
author in the minister, received a handsome compliment 
at Verona from a literary sovereign : " Ah ! Monsieur 
C, are you related to that Chateaubriand who — who — 
who has written somethzv^ ?" (ecrit quelque chose!) It 
is said that the author of Atala repented him for a mo- 
iit(n>t of luR legitimacy. 



There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, 
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 
To furnish articles for the *' Debats;" 
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
As his dismissal in the *' Moniteur," 
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err! 
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
'^Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride; 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy;-|- 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; 
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. ) 
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare 
A daughter ? What did France's widow there? ' 
Her fitter place w^as by St. Helen's wave. 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no — she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain;* 
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
Must watch her through these paltry pageant- 
ries, [in vain, 
What though she share no more, and shared 
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
Which swept from Moscow to the southern 

seas! 
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
Where Parma views the traveller resort. 
To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn 
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and 

mourn — 
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
To chill in their inhospitable clime; 
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold; — 
But no, — their embers soon will burst the 
mould;) [cine's. 

She comes! — the Andromache (but not Ra- 
Nor Homer's,) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she^ 

leans! 
Yes! the right arm, yet red from W^aterloo, 
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptr^ 

through. 
Is offer'd and accepted ? Could a slave 
Do more? or less? — and //^ in his newgrave| 
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,! 
And the ^jr-empress grows as ex a wife! 



t The Duke de Reichstadt, Napoleon's son. 
* Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husbanJ 
to Maria Louisa. 



l822. 



THE BLUES. 



163 



So much for human ties in royal breasts! | 

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are| 

jests ? i 

XVIII. I 

But tired of foreign follies, I turn home, | 

And sketch the group — the picture's yet to' 

come. 
My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt, 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland 

clan 



To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse 
roar, [more!" 

While all the Common Council cry '' Clay- 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross surloin of a city Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
That I awoke, — and lo! it was no dream! 

Here, reader, will we pause: — if there's no 

harm in [" Carmen." 

This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second 



THE BLUES: 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 

1822. 

*' Nimium ne crede colori." — Virgil. 
O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue. 
Though your hair were as red as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE THE FIRST. 

London. — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 

Ink. You're too late. 

Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hom\ 

But the benches are cramm'd like a garden in 

flower, [it the fashion; 

With the pride of our belles, who have made 

So, instead of ** beaux arts," we may say *' la 

belle passion " [in 

For learning, which lately has taken the lead 

The world, and set all the fine gentlemen 

reading. [out my patience 

Tra. I know it too well, and have worn 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and 

Wordswords and Co. 
W^ith their damnable 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does * * the 

You're an author — a poet — [Row:" 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra» Excuse me: I meant no offence 



To the Nine; though the number who make 

some pretence 
To their favors is such but the subject to 

drop, 
I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two 

paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those 

places:) [critique, 

Where I just had been skimming a charming 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with 

Greek! [got such a threshing, 

Where your friend — you know who — has jusL 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely *' re- 
What a beautiful word! [^freshing.^^ 

Ink. Very true; 'tis so suft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no 
So they've cut up our friend, then? [matter. 
Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation. 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the 

nation. 
I7ik. I'm sorry to hear this! for friendsliip, 

you know — [minate so. 

Our poor friend! — but I thought it would ter- 



1 64 



THE BLUES. 



1822. 



Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to 

shock it. [pocket? 

You don't happen to have the Review in your 

Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors 

and others [brother's) 

(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a 

All scramblingand jostling, like so many imps, 

And on fire with impatience to get the next 

////'. Let us join them. [glimpse. 

Tra^ What, won't you return to the lecture? 

/;//'. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there's 
not room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you know that till you hear 
him? 

Ink. I heard 

Quite enough; and,- to tell you the truth, my 
retreat [heat. 

Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the 

Tra. I have had no great loss, then? 

hik. Loss! — such a palaver! 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two 
hours [pours. 

To the torrent of trash which around him he 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with 
such labor, [one's neighbor. 

That come — do not make me speak ill of 

Tra. /make you! 

Ink. Yes, you! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill! 

Is that your deduction? 

Ink. W' hen speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly /(^//c'w, 7iot set an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that 
one fool makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 
Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nicknames 
To Z2\\ you to this hot bed. [his lyre, 

Ira. I own it — 'tis true — 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster? 

Tra. Miss Lilac! 

Ink, The Blue! 

The heiress? 

Tra. The angel! 

Ink. The devil! why, man. 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your 

perdition: 
She's a poet, a chemist, a mathematician. 

Tra. I say she's an angel. 



Ink^ Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you'll certainly wran- 
gle. 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 
Tra. And is that any cause for not coming 
together? [happy alliance 

Ink, Plumph! I can't say 1 know any 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock 
with science. [cerning 

She's so learned in all things, and fondof con- 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 

That 

Tra. What? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my 

tongue; [you're wrong. 

But there's five hundred people can tell you 

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a 

Jew. [pursue? 

Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you 

Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — 

something of both. 

The girl's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet 

Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes : 

I demand [and hand. 

Nothing more than the heart of her daughter 

Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — 

that hand on the pen. 
Tra. Apropos — W^ill you write me a song 

now and then? 
Ink. To what purpose? [prose 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes; 

But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 
Tra. I own it; and yet, in these times, 
there's no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few? 
Ink. In your name? 

Tra. In my name. I will 

copy them out. 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard 

Tra. Why, [this? 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's 

So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme [eye, 

What I've told her in prose, at the least, as 

sublime? [Muse. 

Ink, As sublime! If it be so, no need of my 

Tra, But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of 

the " Blues." [to say. 

Ink. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — I've nothing 

Stick to prose — As sublime I ! — But I wish you 

good day. 



l822. 



THE BLUES. 



165 



Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consitier 
— I'm wrong; 
I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song. 

Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows 
damn'd bad taste. [what 

Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — 
Can I say to you more? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at: 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse. 
Till you think you can turn them best to your 
own use. 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what; 

And you, who're a man of the gay world no less 
Than a poet of t'other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover, my friend. 

Ink. No doubt; you by this time should 
know what is due 
To a man of but come, let us shake hands. 

Tra, You knew. 

And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. That's my bookseller's business; I care 
not for sale; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail.* 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's 
And my own grand romance [plays, 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff'd in the ** Old Girl's Re- 

Ink. What Review? [view.*' 

Tra. 'Tis the English ** Journal de Trevoux," 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come. 

Tra, Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit, [day. 

Tra, No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's 

rout? [ent, as soon 

Ink, I've a card, and shall go; but at pres- 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down | 
from the moon [wits), 

(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conver- 
sation : 



'Tis a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue 
and praise. [pleasant. 

And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not un- 
Will you go? There's Miss Lilac will also be 
present. 
Tra. That ** metal's attractive." 
Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra, You should rather encourage my pas- 
sion than shock it. 
But let us proceed; for I think by the hum — 
Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they 
can come, [levee. 

Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their 
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue 
bevy. [the drone 

Hark! Zounds, they'll be on us; I know by 
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedri tone. 
Ay! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join 
Your friend, or he'll pay you back in your 
own coin. 
Tra. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 
Ink. That's clear. 

But for God's sake, let's go, or the Bore will 

be here. 

Come, come: nay, I'm oft. \Exit Inkel. 

Tra, You are right, and I'll follow; 

'Tis high time for a ** Sic 7ne servavit Apollo.''^ 

And yet we shall have the whole crew on our 

kibes. 

Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second' 

hand scribes, [ties 

All flocking to moisten their exquisite throt- 

With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

\Exit Tracy. 
END OF ECLOGUE THE FIRST. 



♦ Southey and Sotheby are meant. 



ECLOGUE THE SECOND. 
An Apartment in the House of Lady Blue- 
bottle, A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle sohis. 

Was there ever a man who was married so 
sorry? [hurry. 

Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a 
void, [ploy'd; 

Must now, every hour of the twelve, be em- 
The twelve, do I say? — of the whole twenty- 
four, [more ? 
Is there one which I dare call my own any 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and 
dining, [bling, and shining 
What with learning, and teaching, and scrib- 
In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two. 



i66 



THE BLUES. 



1822. 



Yet she somehow contrives that all things 

shall be done 
In a style ^vhich proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me 

more [ble me sore) 

Than the bills of the week (though they trou- 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, 

and blue, [my cost — 

Who are brought to my house as an inn, to 
For the bill here, it seems, is defrayed by the 

host — [pains, 

No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my 

brains; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews. 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail of those they call 

*' Blues;" 
A rabble who know not — But soft, here they 

come! [be dumb.j 

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'llj 

Entej' Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady! 
Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, 
Miss Mazarine, and othe^-Sy with Scamp, 
the Lecturer y &c., &c. 

I^ady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good 
morning: I've brought you some friends. 

Sir Rich, [bows, and afterwards aside). If 
friends, they're the first. 

Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends, 

I pray ye be seated, *' sans cere7no7iiey 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair 
there next me. \They all sit. 

Sir Rich, {aside). If he does, his fatigue is 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy — [to come. 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, 

pray, to place ye; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to up- 
You were not at the lecture. [braid ye; 

7'ra. Excuse me; I was; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — 
And when — [alas! 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling; 
You have lost such a lecture! [but then 

y^oth. The best of the ten. 

lYa. How can you know that? there are 
two more. 

Both, Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous ap- ; 
The very walls shook. [plause.I 

Lnk, Oh, if that be the test, I 

I alluw our friend Scamp has this day done' 

his best, i 



Miss Lilac, permit me to help you: — a wing? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who 
lectures next spring? 

Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not? 

Lnk. No reason whatever, save that he's a 
Lady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira? [sot. 

Lady Bluevi. With pleasure. 

Lnk. How does your friend Wordswords, 

that Windermere treasure? [sings. 

Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he 

And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors 

and kings? 

L.ady Bhiem. He has just got a place. 

L7ik. As a footman? 

Lady Bhiem. For shame! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a 
name. 

Lnk. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied 

his master; [aster 

For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no dis- 

To wear a new livery; the more, as 'tis not 

The first time he has turn'd both his creed and 

his coat. 

Lady Bluem. For shame! I repeat. If Sir 
George could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel; 
'Tis his way [we all know, my dear, 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Lnk. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blue?n. Excuse me — ^tis one in the 
*< Stamps:" 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What? 

Lnk. I shall think of him oft when I buy a 
new hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluefn, Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

L7ik. I shan't go so far — I can have them at 

L^ady Bluem. Oh fie! [Grange's.* 

Miss Lil. And for shame! 

Lady Blue?n. You're too bad. 

Both. Very good! 

Lady Bluem. How good? [phrase. 

Lady Blueb. He means nought — 'tis his 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask 
him. 

L.ady Bluem. Bray, sir! did you mean 

W^hat you say? 

Ink. Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen 

* Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer 
in Piccadilly. 



l822. 



THE BLUES. 



167 



That whatever he means won't alloy what he 

Both. Sir! [says. 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion 

'Twas in your defence. [of praise; 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never 

defend [friend. 

Yourself or your works; but leave both to a 

Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last? 

Both. At lasc? 

hik. Why. I thought — that's to say — there 

had pass'd [you know 

A few green-room whispers, which hinted, — 

That the taste of the actors at best is so-so. 

Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and 

so's the Committee. [** pity 

Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 

And fear," as the Greek says: for ** purging 

the mind," 
I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and 
meant to have pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 

Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's 

Is it cast yet? [to be play'd. 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go 

\h.Q first night. 

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 

Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 

I'll do \vhat I can, though my pains must be 

Tra. Why so? [double. 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears 

en that score. 

Your pcrts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind mine; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your 
own line. 
Lad); Bluem-. You're a fugitive writer, I 
think, sir, of rhymes? [sometimes. 

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader 
On "Vordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or en Mouthey, his friend, without taking to 
flight. 
lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; 
but time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's se- 
E^come its reproach. [verity 

Ink. IVe no sort of objection. 

So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that 
they ever will take ? 



Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the 
lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a 

guinea. 
Of pension or place; — but the subject's a bore. 
Lady Bluem, Well, sir, the time's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore? 

What say you to this? 

Scainp. They have merit, I own; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it un- 
known, [lecturer? 
Bik, Then why not unearth it in one of your 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes 

under my strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartnejsfe; 
— the joy of my heart 
Is too see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature! — Grand Shakspeare! 

Both. And down Aristotle! 

Lady Bluem. Sir George* thinks exactly 

with Lady Bluebottle: [dear Bard, 

And my Lord Seventy-four,f who protects our 

And who gave him his place, has the greatest 

regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses. 
Has found out the way to dispense with Par- 
TV <3!. And you. Scamp! — [nassun. 
Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embar- 
rass'd. [so harass'd 
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already 
With old schools, and new schools, and no 
schools, and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some 
I should like to know who. [must be fools. 
Ink. And I should not be sorry 
To know who are not: — it would save us some 
worry. [nothing contiol 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let 
This " feast of our reason and flow of the soul." 
Oh! my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathize! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I'm. ready to fly. 
I feel so elastic — ** so buoyant — so buoy ant 1'''% 
Ink, Tracy! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 
Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, 
check not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot [lifb 
Upon earth. Give it way : 'tis an impulse w^hiclj 
Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his 
mountain: [fountain; 
'Tis the source of all sentiment — feeling's true 



*Sir George Beaumont. [Edit.] 

tEarl of Lonsdale, who offered to equip a 74 man-of- 
war at his own cost at the close of the American war. 
[Edit.] 

$Fact from life, with the wards. 



1 68 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 'tis the 

gas [pass, 

Of the soul: 'tis the seizing of shades as they 

And making them substance; 'tis something 



divine! — [more wine 

Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little 

Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I 

dine. [phrey* to-day? 

/;//'. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Hum- 

T7'a. I should think with Duke Humphrey 

was more in your way. [look 

Ink, It might be of yore; but we authors now 

To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than 

the Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is. 
And (except with his publisher) dines where 

he pleases. 
But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there 
till 'tis dark. 
And you. Scamp — 

Scamp. Excuse me! 1 must to my notes 



*Sir Humphrey Davy. [Edit.] 



END OF 



For my lecture next week. 

Ittk. He must mind whom he quotes 

Out of ** Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up; 

But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we 
all meet again, [pagne! 

For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and cham- 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad! 
Both. I honor that meal. 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — 
feel. [yond question: 

Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far be- 
I wish to the gods 'twas the same with diges- 
tion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw! — never mind that; 
for one moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 

Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows But here comes 

your carriage. 
Sir Rich. [Aside]. I wish all these people 

were d d with my marriage! 

[Bxeunt, 

ECLOGUE THE SECOND. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE: 

A ROMAUNT. 



tueux. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ , ^ ^ . , 

concilie avec elle. Quandje n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni 
les frais ni les fatigues." — Le Cosmopolite. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND CANTOS. 

The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. 1 was be- 
gun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's obser/ations in 
those countries. This much it may be necessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The icenes at- 
tempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, :he poem 
stops: its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these two cantos are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece; which, however, 
makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a hi^ value, 
that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intended some rtal per- 
sonage: this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is a child of imagination, for the purpose I havestated. 
In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in themain 
points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation " Childe," as " Childe Waters," " Childe ChiUers," 
&c., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The " Good Nijht," 
in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minst^tlsy, 
edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some sight 
coincidence in the first part which treats of the Peninsula; but it can only be casual, as, with the exception of a*ew 
concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Pr. Beatie 
makes the following observation: — " Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which\ 
propose to give lull scope to my inc'ination, and be cither drollor pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or 
satirical, as the humor strikes me: for, ii I lai^akc not, the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all 
t hese kin d s of compo sition."* Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, an d by the example of some in the 

*Beattic's Letters. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



.69 



highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following compo- 
sition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution rather than in the design, sanc- 
tioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson and Beattie. 
London, February, 1812. 

ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical journals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the 
justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to quarrel with their 
very slight decree of censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kind, they had been more candid. Returning, 
therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall 1 venture an observation. 
Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the "vagrant Childe " (whom, 
notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I shall maintain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that 
besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, and so 
forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when " I'amour du bon vieux terns, I'amour antique " flour- 
ished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult 
Sainte-Palaye./.iji-z'w, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any 
other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less 
refined, than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de courtesie et de gentilesse," had 
much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject with Sainte-Palaye. What- 
ever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly 
knightly \r\. his attributes — " No waiter but a knight templar."* By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lan- 
celot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights, "sans peur," 
though not " sans reproche." If the story of the institutioif of the " Garter " be not a fable, the knights of that 
order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indiflTerent memory. So much for 
chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was quite as chaste as 
most of those in whose honor lances were shivered and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient 
and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement; and I fear a little investigation will teach us not 
to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. ' 

I now leave " Childe Harold " to Hve his day, such as he is. It had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and 
express less; but he never was intended as an example, further than to show that early perversion of mind and 
morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature and 
ithe stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so constituted, or 
\ rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the 
i; close; for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern 
I^Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 

London, 1813. 



TO lANTHE.f 



Not in those climes where I have late been] 
straying, [less deem'd, 

Though Beauty long hath there been match- 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only 
dream'd, [seem'd: 

\ Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy 
1 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
I To paint those charms which varied as they 
I beam'd — [weak; 

To such as see thee' not, my words were 
lo those who gaze on thee, what language 
could they speak? 

I Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
\ Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 

As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
ii Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 



Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow dis- 
appears. 

Young Peri of the West! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine: 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; 
Happier, that while all y-ounger hearts shall 

bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes as- 
sign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest 
hours decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy. 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly 
sigh, 



* The RoverSy or the Double Arrangement. - - 

tLady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, afterwards Lady C. Baeoa. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILCRIMAGE, 



lS!2. 



Could I to thee be ever more than friend: 
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question 
why [mend. 

To one so young my strain 1 would com- 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily 
blend. 
Such is thy name with this my verse en- 
twined; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 



On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: 
My days once number'd, should this hom- 
age past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wasi, 
Such is the most my memory may desire; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could 
Friendship less require? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly 

birth. 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill; 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted 

shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 
IL ! 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, \ 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; j 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, j 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of; 

Night. 
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low 
degree. 

III. 
Childe Harold was he hight: — but whence 

his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say; 



* The litde village of Castri stands partly on the site 
of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from 
the rock; " one," said the guide, " of a king who broke 
his neck hunting." His Majesty had certainly chosen 
the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above 
Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense 
depth;«the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow- 
house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek mon- 
astery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and appar- 
ently leading to the interior of the mountain, probably to 
the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Fausanias. From this 
part descend the fountain and the " Dews of Castalie." 



Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day: 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide 
Disporting there like any other fly, [sun, 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, _ 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell; 
He felt the fullness of satiety: 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell>| 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Ere-j 
mite's sad cell. 

V. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth hadrun^ 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved bu 

one. 

And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be hil 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whoa 

kiss 

Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;* 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar 

bliss, [waste, 

And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his 

Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to 

taste. 

VI. 
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at 

heart. 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e; 



lSl2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



I7f 



Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea: 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for 

woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the 

shades below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall; 

It was a vast and venerable pile; 

So old, it seemed only not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 

Where Superstition once had made her den. 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile; [come agen. 

And monks might deem their time was 

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 

men. 

VIII. 

Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe 

Harold's brow, 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to 

know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er his grief might be, which he could 

not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall 

and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans 

dear — [care. 

But pomp and power alone are woman's 
And where these are light Eros finds a 

feere; [glare. 

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by 

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs 

might despair, 

X. 
Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
Though parting from that mother he did 

shun; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, 
Yet deem not thence his breast, a breast of 

steel; 



Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope 
to heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks and snowy 

hands. 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine. 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's 

central line. 

XII, 

The sails werefill'd, and fair the light winds 

blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his 

view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam; 
And thcii, it may be, of his wush to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did 

come L^^'^P^» 

One word of wail, whilst others sate and 

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning 

kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
He seized his harp which he at times could 

string. 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listen- 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, [ing; 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sightj 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last ** Good 
Night," 

Adieu, adieu! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good night! 

A few short hours, and he will rise, 

To give the morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies. 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall. 



172 



CHILDE HAROLD'S r/LGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, 
My dog howls at the gate. 

** Come hither, hither, my little page! 

"Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, 

Our ship is swift and strong; 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 

*' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind; 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and One above. 

** My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again." 
** Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry. 

** Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. 

Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman, 

Or shiver at the gale?" — 
** Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

** My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake; 
And when they on their father call. 

What answer shall she make?" — 
*< Enough, enough, my yeoman good. 

Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But I, who am of lighter mood. 

Will laugh to flee away." 

For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 

And now I'm in llic world alone, 
Upon the wide, wide sea; 



i 



But why should I for others groan. 

When none will sigh for me? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain. 

Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! 

My native land — Good Night! 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay,-^ 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their 

way, 

And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 

His fabled golden tribute bent to pay: 

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,| 

And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet fev 

rustics reap. 

XV. 

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see [land? 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious { 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! ^ 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! " 
But man would mar them with an impious ■ 
hand : [scourge ' 

And when the Almighty lifts His fiercest 
'Gainst those who most transgress His high 
command, [urge 

With treble vengeance will His hot shafts 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foe- 
men purge. 



What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! 

' Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid affurd: 
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves 
the sword [sparing lord. 

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's un- 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 



A 



I8l2. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



173 



'Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e;| 
For hut and palace show like filthily; j 

The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; j 

No personage of high or mean degree j 

Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, i 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd, unhurt. 

xvm. 
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest 

scenes — [men? 

Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such 
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen. 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, [ken 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal 
Than those whereof such things the bard 

relates, [sium's gates? 

Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Ely- 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent 

crown'd, [steep. 

The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy 
The mountain moss by scorching skies im- 

brown'd, [weep. 

The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest 

bough. 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap. 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty 

glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way. 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, j 

From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, : 
And rest ye at ** Our Lady's House of 

Woe;"* I 

"Where frugal monks their little relics show, ! 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell ; [lo, I 
Here impious men have punish'd been; and 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell. 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a 

Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you 
spring, [path; 

j Mark many rude-carved crosses near the 
I Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 

* The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
SeHora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at 
some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius 
dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, 
the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 



These are memorials frail of murderous 

wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's 

knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are 

rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures 

not life!* 

XXII. 
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make 

repair: [breathe; 

But now the wild flowers round them only 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : 
There thou, too,Vathek !f England's wealth- 
iest son. 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds 

hath done, [to shun. 

Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont 

XXIII. 
Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of plea- 
sure plan, [brow; 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle 
tide. 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late con- 
vened!:]: 
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 



* It is a well-known fact that in the year 1809 the as- 
sassinations in the streets of Lisbon ana its vicinity were 
not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen, but 
that Englishmen were daily butchered; and so far from 
redress being obtained, we were requested not to inter- 
fere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself 
against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the 
theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets 
were not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a 
friend: had we not fortunately been armed, I have not 
the least doubt that we should have " adorned a tale " 
instead of telling one. 

t Mr. Beckford, author of Vathek. 

i The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchcse Marialva. 



174 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1812. 



Where blazon'd glare names known to I 
chivalry, | 

And sundry signatures adorn the roll, j 

Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with 
all his soul. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 

Of brains (if brains they had) he them be- 
guiled. 

And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 

Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's 
plume, 

And Policy regain'd what arms had lost: 

For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels 
bloom! 

Woe to the conquering, not the conquered 

host, [coast. 

Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name; 
And folks in office at the mention fret. 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, 

for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer. 
To view these champions cheated of their 

fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many 

a coming year? 

XXVII. 
So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains 
Did take his way in solitary guise: [he 

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to 

flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize. 
For Meditation fix'd at times on him; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim; 
But as he gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew 

dim. 

XXVIII. 
To horse! to horse! he quits, forever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, [soul; 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward lie flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, [roll, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
sage. 



XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
W^here dwelt of yore the Lusians* luckless 
queen; [r^y» 

And church and court did mingle their ar- 
And mass and revel were alternate seen; 
Lordlings andfreres — ill-sorted fry, I ween! 
But here the Babylonian whore had built* 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious 
sheen, [spilt. 

That men forget the blood which she hath ' 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to gar- 
nish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic 

hills, 
(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a 

pleasant place. [chase. 

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair. 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to 

trace. 
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to 

share. 

XXXI. 
More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shep- 
herds tend [knows — 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend ; 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjec- 
tion's woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms di- 
vide? 
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet. 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land 
from Gaul. 

* The extent of Mafra is prodigious; it contains a pal- 
ace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs 
are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of decora- 
tion: we did not hear them, but were told that their 
tones were correspondent to their splendor. Mafra is 
termed the Escurial of Portugal. 



r8i2. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



175 



But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distingiiisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant 

sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen 

flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference 

know [low.* 

'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been 

pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor 

drest; [the strong; 

Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk 

The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 

Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating 

hosts oppress'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 

"Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. 

When Cava'sf traitor-sire first called the 
band [gore? 

That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic 

Where are those bloody banners which of 
yore 

Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 

And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 

Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the cres- 
cent pale, [matrons' wail. 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish 
XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 

Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate! 

When granite moulders, and when records 
fail, 

A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 



* As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That they are since improved, at least in cour- 
age, is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington 
have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has indeed done 
wonders; he has perhaps changed the character of a na- 
tion, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy 
who never retreated before his predecessors. — 1812. 

t Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the 
Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some 
centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of 
Granada. 



Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 

estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee 

great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History 

does thee wrong? "^ 

XXXVII. 
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! 
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries. 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's 

roar! 
In every peal she calls — " Awake, arise!" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 

shore? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreads 

ful note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on th« 

heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; 
Nor saved your -brethren ere they sank be- 
neath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of 

death, [rock 

The bale-fires flash on high; — from rock to 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to 

breathe : 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel 

the shock. 

XXXIX. 
Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun. 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all he glares upon; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet [done; 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems 

most sweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother 

there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 

their lair, [prey! 

And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the 



176 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1812. 



All join the chase, but few the triumph share : 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their 
array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; [high ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue 

skies; [Victory! 

The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to 

gain. 

XLII. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honor'd 

fools I [clay! 

Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their 
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their 

way 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream 

alone. [sway? 

Can despots compass aug^ht that hails their 

Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 

Save that wherein at last they crumble bone 

by bone ? 

XLIII. 

O Albuera, glorious field of grief! [steed, 

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his 

Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 

A scene where mingling foes should boast 

and bleed? [meed 

Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's 

And tears of triumph their reward prolong! 

Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 

Thy name shall circle round the gaping 

throng, [sient song. 

And shine in worthless lays, the theme of tran- 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for 

fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single 

name. 
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their coun- 
try's good, [shame; 
And die, that living might have proved her 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path 
pursued. 



XLV. 
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey I 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot in- 
trude, [rude. 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces 
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease 
to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours con- 
sume, [wounds; 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 
Nor hear War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 

sounds; _^ 

Here Folly still her votaries enthralls, W^ 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her mid- 
night rounds: 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the totter- 
ing walls. 



1 



Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: [mar, 
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man 
be happy yet. 

XLVIII. . 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? "^ 

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay. 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to 

cheer. 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No! as he speeds he chants **Viva elRey!"* 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 



* " Viva el Key Fernando 1" Long live King Ferdi- 
nand I is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
sengs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old King 
Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have 
heard many of them: some of the airs are beautiful. 
Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an 
ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on the 
frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of 
the Spanish guards ; till his person attracted the queen's 
eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c., 
&c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally im- 
pute the ruin of their country. 



I8l2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



^77 



When first Spain's queen beheld the black- 
eyed boy, [terate joy. 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adul- 

XLIX. 

On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets 

rest, [ground; 

Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's 

darkened vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: 
Here was the camp, the watch -flame, and 

the host, [nest; 

Here the brave peasant storm'd the dragon's 

Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 

And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were 

won and lost. 

L. 

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,* 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom 

to greet: 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the can- 
non's smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd. 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch. 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of 
thatch, [match. 

The ball-piled pyramid, -j* the ever-blazing 



Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose 
nod [sway, 

Has tumbled feebler despots from their 

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; 

A little moment deigneth to delay; 

Soon will his legions sweep through these 
their way; [world. 

The West must own the Scourger of the 



* The red cockade, with " Fernando VII." in the 
centre. 

t AH who have seen a battery will recollect the 
pyramidal form in which shot and shell are piled. The 
Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through 
which I passfcd in my way to Spain. 



Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckonings 

day, [unfurl'd. 

When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings 

And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to 

Hades hurl'd. 

LIII. 

And must they fall — the young, the proud, 
the brave-r- [some reign? 

To swell one bloated Chief's unwhole- 

No step between submission and a grave? 

The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 

And doth the Power that man adores or- 
dain 

Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 

Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain? 

And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Man- 
hood's heart of steel? 

LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar. 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused. 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of 

war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm 

dead [quake to tread. 

Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal- 
black veil. 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's 

power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's 

tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's 
fearful chase. 



Her lover sinks— -she sheds no ill-timed tear, 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base ca- 
reer; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's frul .^ 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope 
is lost ? 



178 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Who hung so licicely on the flying (laul, I 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'di 

wall ?* 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love: 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons. 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate; 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms per- 
chance as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath im- 

press'd [touch ;f 

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his 

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their 

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : [nest. 

Her glance, how wildly beautiful ! how much 

Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her 

cheek, [ous clutch! 

Which glows yet smoother from his amor- 

W^ho round the North for paler dames would 

seek? [wan and weak! 

How poor their forms appear! how languid, 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to 

laud; 
Match me, ye harems of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, if far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that even a cynic must avow! 
Match me those Houris, whom ye scarce 

allow [wind. 

To taste the gale lest Love should ride the 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — 

deign to know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
Hi^ black-eyed maids of Heaven angelically 

kind. 

LX. 

Oh thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, § 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye. 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, [sky. 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native 



* Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who 
by her valor elevated htrself to the highest rank of he- 
roines. When the author was at Seville, she walked 
daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, 
by command of tire Junta. 

t " Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
^ Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem."— AuL. Gel. 

\ I'his stanza was written in Turkey. 

§ These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at 
the foot of Parnassus, now called Aca/cvpa (Liakura), 
Dec, 1809. 



In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
W^ould gladly woo thine Echoes with his 
string, [will wave her wing. 

Though from thy heights no more one Muse 

LXI. 

Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glori- 
ous name [lore 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinestj 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with sham< 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have 
been, [^^^j 

Whose fate to distant homes confined their 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it 
not? [grot, 

Though here no more Apollo haunts his 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their 

grave. 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodi- 
ous wave, 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of 

Spain; 
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a 

tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless 

plant, [vaunt. 

Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when ^ 

Greece was young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir; 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire [fire, 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: 
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful 
shades [her glades. 

As (ireece can still bestow, though Glory fiy 



i8i2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



179 



LXV. 
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, [days.* 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 
The fascination of thy magic gaze? ['scape 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 
shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time ! 

The Queen who conquers all must yield to 

thee — [clime; 

The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a 

And Venus, constant to her native sea. 

To nought else constant, hither deign'd to 

flee, [white; 

And fix'd her shrine within these walls of 

Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 

Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 

A thousand altars rise, forever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled 

Mom 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew. 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the horn- 
by turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: [roar? 
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting 

gore [horn : 

Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for 

more; [torn. 

Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly 

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n afl"ects to 

mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
London! right well thou know'st the day of 

prayer; 
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air 



* Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 



Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse 

chair, [whirl; 

And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs 

To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make 

repair; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian 
churl. 

LXX. 
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fly; [Ware, 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?* 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids 
are sworn, [dance till morn. 

And consecrate the oath with draught, and 
LXXI. 
All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine. 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary: [free 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) [be; 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare; 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diver- 
sion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 

Thousands on thousands piled are seated 

round; [heard. 

Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is 

Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: 

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames 

Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, [abound. 

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; 

None through their cold disdain are doom'd 

to die, [arohery. 

As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant 

steeds, [poised lance, 

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light- 



* This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for asking and answering such a question ; 
not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of 
Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
solved. 

The poet alludes to a burlesque oath, which it was the 
custom to administer to guests of the lower classes at the 
Highgate public-houses. It was uttered over a pair of 
horns. The oath was "never to eat brown bread if he 
could get white, never to drink small beer when he 
could get strong," &c., &c.; with the saving clause, 
" unless he preferred the contrary." 



i8o 



CHILD E HAROI,D'S PILGRIMAGE. 



I8l2. 



Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly 

prance; 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely 

glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 

toils repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd. 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd IMatadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 

o'er, [speed: 

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his 

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 

Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 

Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and 

bleed, 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal 

falls. 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty 

brute, [foot. 

And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, 

to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd; away, 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; 
Now is thy time to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
\Yith well-timed croupe the nimble coursers 

veer; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he 

goes; [clear: 

Streams from his flank the crimson torrent 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his 

throes: [ings speak his woes. 

Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellow- 



Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; 
Though man and man's avenging arms 

assail. 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 



One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled 

corse; 
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame 

he rears; [harm'd he bears. 

Staggering, but stemming all, his lord un- 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the 

last. 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray; [brast, 
And now the Matadores around him play. 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready 

brand; [ing w^ay — 

Once more through all he bursts his thunder- 
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge 

hand, [the sand! 

Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the 

spine. 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline: 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies, ; 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar 
eyes — [s^X* 

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as 
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dash- 
ing by. 

LXXX. 
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 

swain: 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should 

meet the foe. 
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain. 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's 
warm stream must flow. 

LXXX I. 

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts. 
His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could 

encage, [^g^- " 

Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), 



l8l2. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



i8i 



With braided tresses bounding o'er the 

green, [loving Queen? 

While on the gay dance shone Night's lover- 

LXXXII. 

Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a 

dream. 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream : 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he 

seem, [springs* 

Full from the fount of Joy's delicious 

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom 

flings. 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. 
Though now it moved him as it moves the 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind [wise, 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes, 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous 

tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise ; 
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring 
gloom [ing doom. 

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unrest- 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, 

the song; [fate? 

But who may smile that sinks beneath his 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's 

sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his 

happier day, 

TO INEZ. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, 

Alas! I cannot smile again: 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

And dost thou ask what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang ev'n thou must fail to soothe? 



* " Medb de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 



Luc. 



It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most: 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see: 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore. 

That will not look beyond the tomb. 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

What Exile from himself can flee? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life — the demon Thought! 

Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake : 

Oh! may they still of transport dream. 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake I 

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear: 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask [there. 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's 



Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! [stood ? 
Who may forget how well thy walls have 
When all were changing, thou alone wert 
First to be free, and last to be subdued, [true. 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud :* [dye, 
Here all were noble, save Nobility; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain save fallen 
Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her 
fate! [free: 

They fight for freedom, who were never 
A kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery ; [flee. 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but 

life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; 

* Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
governor of Cadiz, in May, i8o^. 



l82 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
^Var, war is still the cry, ** War even to the 
knife!"* 

LXXXVII. 
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 

know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign 

foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life: 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
\Var mouldeth there each weapon to his 

need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorse- 
less deed! 



Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain. 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw; 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's un- 

bleaching stain. 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe. 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes 

we saw! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she 

frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd. 
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sus- 

tain'd, [unrestrain'd. 

While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder 

xc. 
Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead. 
Have won for vSpain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from 
blight? [ingtoil? 

When shall she breathe her from the blush- 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 



♦ Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege 
(»f Saragoza. 



Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil. 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of 
the soil! 

XCI. 
And thou, my friend!* since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to com- 
plain : 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully 
to rest? 

XCII. 
Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the 
most! [dear! 

Dear to a heart where nought was left so 
Though to my hopeless days forever lost. 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: 
Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much? Stern Critic, say not so: 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands where he was doom'd to go; 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous 
hands were quell'd. 

* The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who 
died of a fever at Coimbra (May 14, 181 1). I had known 
him ten years, the better half of his life, and the hap- 
piest part of mine. In the short space of one month I 
have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who 

;had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of 
Young are no fiction: — 

I " Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? 

i Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn." 
I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- 
lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise 
of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment 
of greater honors, against the ablest candidates, than 
those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have suf- 
ficiently established his fame on the spot where it was 
acquired; while his softer qualities live in the recollection 
of friends who loved him too well to envj' his superiority. 



i 



I8l2. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



183 



CANTO . THE SECOND. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but 

thou, alas. 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,* 
And years that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages 

slow. 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd 

breasts bestow. f 

II. 
Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in 

soul? [things that were: 

Gone — glimmering through the dream of 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the 

whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 



* Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 

t We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are be- 
held: the reflections suggested by such objects are too 
trite to require recapitulation. But never did the little- 
ness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of 
patriotism to exalt, and of valor to defend, his country, 
appear more conspicuous than in the record of what 
Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This 
theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the 
struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of 
tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now 
become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- 
ance, between the bickering agents of certain British no- 
bility and gentry. "The wild foxes, the owls, and ser- 
pents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrad- 
ing than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of 
conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only 
suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but 
how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest 
the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph 
in turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman ! 
Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes bum 
Athens; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and 
his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as 
himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its de- 
struction, in part, by fire during the Venetian siege, had 
been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point 
of view it is an object of regard: it changed its wor- 
shippers; but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred 
to devotion; its violation is a triple sacrifice. But — 
" Man, proud man, 

Drest in a little brief authority. 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven 

As make the angels weep.** 



Are sought in vain, and o'er each moulder- 
ing tower, [of power. 
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade 

III. 

Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn; 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! 
Abode'of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their 

turn : ["creeds 

'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's; and other 
Will rise with other years, till man shall 

learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope 

is built on reeds. 



Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to 

heaven — 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know 
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go. 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what re- 
gion, so [skies? 
On earth no more, but mingled with the 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: 
That little urn saith more than thousand homi- 
lies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :* 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around : 
But now not one of saddening thousands 

weeps. 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd 

heaps : 
Is that a temple where a god may dwell? 
Why, ev'n the worm at last disdains her shat- 

ter'd cell ! 



*It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
decease; and he was indeed neglected who had not 
annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honor of his 
memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c., 
and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as 
his life was infamous. 



i84 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul; 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall. 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless 

hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd 

control; 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be 

known." [shun? 

Why should we shrink from what we cannot 
Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers 

groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth 

best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: 
There no forced banquet claims the sated 

guest, [rest. 

But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome 



Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors 

light! [more! 

To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no 

Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 

The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught 

the right! 

IX. 

There, thou! — whose love and life, together 

fled. 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee 

dead, 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young Remembrance then re- 
Be as it may Futurity's behest, [main. 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy 

spirit blest! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base! 



Here, son of Saturn, was thy favorite 

throne;* 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be: not ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labor'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek 

carols by. 

XI. 
But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England! I joy no child he was of thine*. 
Thy free-born men should spare what once 

was free; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant 

brine. f 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time 

hath spared::]: 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand 

prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: j 
Her sons, too weak the sacred shrine to • 

guard, pains, § "^ 

Yet felt some portion of their mother's ^ 

And never knew, till then, the weight of Des- \ 

pot's chains, i 

XIII. ; 

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, J 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom 

wrung, 

*The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally 
there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, how- 
ever, are by many supposed to have belonged to the 
Pantheon. 

tThe ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

iSee Notes at the end of the volume. 

§ I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment 
with the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold 
weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract 
from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the 
above lines: — " When the last of the Metopes was taken 
from the Parthenon, and, \x\. moving of it, great part of 
the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was thrown 
down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the 
Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, 
took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a 
supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TeAo? ! — I was 
present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of the 
present Disdar, 



I8l2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



185 



Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 

The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 

The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 

Yes, she, whose generous aid her name en- 
dears, [hand, 

Tore down those remnants with a harpy's 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left So gaily curl the waves before each dashing 
to stand. • 1 prow. 

XIV. XVIII. 



The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; 
Masts, spires, and strand retirin»> to the right. 
The glorious main expanding o er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their 

flight. 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 



Where was thine ^gis, Pallas! that ap- 

pall'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?* 
Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain in- 
thralled. 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array! [more. 
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once 
To scare a second robber from his prey? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore. 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 
before. 

XV. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks 

on thee. 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines 

removed 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they 

roved. 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern 

climes abhorr'd! 

XVI. 

But where is Harold? shall I then forget 

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 

Little reck'd he of all that men regret; 

No loved one now in feign'd lament could 
rave; 

No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
~ Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes; 

Hard is his heart whom charms may not en- 

But Harold felt not as in other times, [slave; 
And left without a sigh the land of war and 
crimes. 

XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may 
be, 

* According lo Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
ened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as th^ Scot- 
tish peer. — See Chandler, 



And oh, the little warlike world within! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* 
The hoarse command, the busy humming 

din, [high: 

When, at a word, the tops are manned on 
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering 

cry! [glides; 

While through the seaman's hand the tackle 

Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by. 

Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 

And well the docile crew that skilful urchin 

guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant 

walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
W'ith aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever 

balks 
Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their 

strength to nerve. 
XX. 
Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling 

gale! [ray; 

Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest 
•breeze, [day, 

What leagues are lost, before the dawn of 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas. 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs 

like these! 

XXI. 

The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves 
expand; [believe: 

Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids 
Such be our fate when we return to land! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 



*To prevent blocks and splinters falling during 



action. 



i86 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; 

A circle there of merry listeners stand, 

Or to some well-known measure featly 

move, [free to rove. 

Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy 
shore, 

Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 

Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky 
Moor 

Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze; 

How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 

Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown. 

Distinct, though darkening with her waning 
phase; 

But Mauritania's giant shadows frown, 
From mountain-cliff to coast descending som- 
bre down. 



'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an 

end: 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a 

friend. [to bend. 

Who with the weight of years would wish 
When Youth itself survives young Love and 

Joy? 
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend. 
Death hath but little left him to destroy! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not 

be a boy? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and 
pride, [year. 

And flies unconscious o'er each backward 
None are so desolate but something dear. 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart di- 
vest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell. 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 



This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's cliarms, and view her 
stores unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 

men, ^ 

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, " 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, t 
With none who bless us, none whom we can " 

bless; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! 
None that, with kindred consciousness en- 
dued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less. 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and " 
sued; 
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 



More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen. 
Watching at eve upon the giant height. 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so. 

serene. 
That he who thereat such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; ■ 
Then slowly tear him from the witching ; 

scene, [lot, 

Sigh forth one wish that such had been his ■ 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost 

forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the 
tack, [wind; 

And each well-known caprice of wave and 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, : 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all 
is well. 



But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, 
The sister tenants of the middle deep; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased 

to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: 
Here, too, his boy essay 'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder 

tide; [doubly sigh'd. 

While thus of both bereft, the nymph -queen 



I8l2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



187 



Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : i 
But trust not this : too easy youth, beware ! ; 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous j 

throne, i 

And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. I 
Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be 

thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare | 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, i 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for \ 

mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a 

thought 
Save admiration glancing harmless by: 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
But knew him as his worshipper no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore. 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway 

was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some 

amaze, [saw. 

One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he 

"Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 

Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 

I Their hope, their doom, their punishment, 

[ their law; [claims: 

' All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen 

And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 

; Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told 

flames, [rarely anger dames. 

j Which, though sometimes they frown, yet 

I XXXIII. 

■ Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
I Now mask'd by silence or withheld by pride, 
' Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art. 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue. 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining 
crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's 

breast, [sighs: 

Who thinks that wanton thing is won by 

What careth she for hearts when once pos- 

sess'd? 



Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving 

tropes; 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman 

copes; [crowns thy hopes. 

Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion 

XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson : Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best deplore it most. 
When all is won that all desire to woo. 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, [these! 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to 
please. 

XXXVI. 

Away! nor let me loiter in my song. 
For we have many a mountain path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led-^ 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared. 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be 
taught. 

XXXVII. 
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild : 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, [child. 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her 

path: 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark'd her when none other 

hath, [best in wrath. 

And sought her more and more, and loved her 

XXXVIII. 
Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise ; 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : 
Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes* 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each 
city's ken. 



* See a long characteristic Note by Lord Byron at 
the end of the volume. 



i88 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



i8ij 



XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren 

spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave;* 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save' 
That breast imbued with such immortal tire?, 
Could she not live who life eternal gave? ' 
If life eternal may await the lyre, ' 

That only heaven to which Earth's children 
may aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, 
Childe Harolde hail'd Leucadia's cape 

afar;f 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar:}: 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not de- 
light 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. 
But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at 
martial wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, | 

And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, \ 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : i 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, | 
He watched the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his 
pallid front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's 

hills. 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak. 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his 

l^eak, [pear, 

Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men ap- 

And gathering storms around convulse the 

closing year. 



* Ithaca. 

t Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the pro- 
montory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have 
thrown herself. 

X Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. 
The bactle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, 
but less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras, "" 
the author oi Don Quixote lost his left hand. 



XLin. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants 

were few: 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was 

new; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed 

summer's heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here. 
Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised. 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood 

dear: 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul superstition! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross. 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate 
thy dross? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king* 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter,bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies 

rose,t fing; 

Now, like the hands that reared them, wither- 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! 
God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to 

win and lose? 

XLVL 
From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Plarold pass'd o'er many a mount 

sublime, [tales: 

Through lands scarce noticed in historic 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus 

fails. 



* It is said that on the day previons to the battle ok 
Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

t Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- 
drome survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large 
masses of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by 
Here ! interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks themselves, 
and equally durable. 



l8l2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



189 



Though classic ground and consecrated 
most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this 
lowering coast. 

XLVII. 
He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,* 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take, 
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread com- 

mandf 
Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: 
Yet here and there some daring mountain- 
band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to 
gold.t 

XLVIII, 

Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,§ 
Thou small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, 

- And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 

Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet 
please the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
- Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier, still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, [high ; 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on 
Here dwells the caloyer;|| nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by 



* According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina: but 
Pouqueville is always out. 

t The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's 
Travels. 

X Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for 
eighteen years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. 
In this contest there were several acts performed not un- 
worthy of the better days of Greece. 

§ The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the 
pachalic. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the 
Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cat- 
aract. The situation is, perhaps, the finest in Greece, 
though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acar- 
nania and ^Etolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Par- 
nassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port 
Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, 
or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add, the approach 
to Constantinople; but from the different features of the 
last, a comparison can hardly be made. 

lIThc Greek monks are so called. 



Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen 

to see. 

L. 
Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his 

breast. 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze ; 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching 

ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve 

away. 

LI. 
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight. 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,* 
Chimsera's alps extend from left to right: 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the 

mouiitain fir 
Nodding above; behold black Acheron !*{• 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade 

shall seek for none. 

LII. 
No city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, [few, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the loneljj cot; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scatter'd 

flock. 
The little shepherd in his white capotej 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived 
shock. 

LIII. 

Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove? 
W^hat trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 

shrine? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be 

thine: 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, 
When nations, tongues, and words must sink 

beneath the stroke? 



*The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- 
canic. 
tNow called Kalamas. 
lAlbanese cloak. 



190 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1812. 



Epirus' bounds recede, and mcuntains fail; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long ex- 
panse. 
And woods along the banks are waving high. 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's 
solemn trance. 



The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,* 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;f 
The shades of wonted night were gathering 

yet. 
When, down the steep banks winding warily 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and draw- 
ing nigh. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the length- 
ening glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower. 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaini'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court; 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers^ guests and santons 

wait; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort, 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 



Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide-extending court below; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing 

door. 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed 

away; [Moor, 

The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the 

*Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

tThe river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
it; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as 
wide as the Thames at Westminster — at least in the opin- 
ion of the author and his fellow-traveller. In the sum- 
mer it must be much narrower. It certainly is the finest 
river in the Levant; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, 
Scamander, nor Cayster approached it in breadth or 
beauty. 



Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced 
the close of day. 

LVIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
And gold-eitibroider'd garments, fair to see : 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple 

Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; [speak, 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 
Are mix'd conspicuous: some recline in 

groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion 
stoops, [are found: 

And some that smoke, and some that play 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the 

ground; [to prate; 

Half-whispering there the Greek is heard 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn 

sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
'< There is no god but God! — to prayer — lol 

God is great!" 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast [tain, 
Through the long day its penance did main- 
But when the lingering twilight hour was 

past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again: 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board 

within : 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in 

vain, [<^iin, 

But from the chambers came the mingling 

As page and slave anon were passing out 

and in. 

LXI, 
Here woman's voice is never heard: apart 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to 

move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares! all other feelings far above! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she 

bears, [shares. 

Who never quits the Ineast, no meaner passion 



l6l2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



191 



LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness 

fling, [pose. 

And soft voluptuous couches breathed re- 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
While Gentleness her milder radiance 
Along that aged venerable face, [throws 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him 

with disgrace. 

LXIII. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth : 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of 

Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's 

tooth: [tal span. 

Blood follows blood, and through their mor- 

in bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 

began. 

LXIV, 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice re- 
treat 
Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler, it in sooth were 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, [sweet; 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of 
both destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous 

need: [ship sure. 

Their wrath how deadly! but their friend- 
When Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed. 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may 

lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's 

tower, 
Thronging to war in splendor and success; 
And after view'd them, when, within their 

power, 



Himself awhile the victim of distress ; [press ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof. 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd 

him less. 
And fellow countrymen have stood aloof* — 
In aught that tries the heart how few with- 
stand the proof! 



It chanced that adverse winds once drove 

his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore. 
When all around was desolate and dark; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore. 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: 
At length they ventured forth, though doubt- 
ing sore [Turk 
That those who loathe alike the P>ank and 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher- 
work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the wel- 
come hand, [swamp. 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 
Kinder than polish'd slaves, though not so 
bland, [ments damp. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their gar- 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheer- 
ful lamp, [they had: 
And spread their fare: though homely, all 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare 

stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad. 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least 
the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain land, 
Combined marauders half way barred egress. 
And wasted far and near with glaive and 

brand; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, [tann'd, 
In war well season'd, and with labors 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide. 
And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds 
espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest. 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's 
grove, [breast. 

Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's 



' Alluding to the wreckers of CornwaU, 



19^ 



CHILD iL HAR OLD'S PIL GRIMA GR. 



1812. 



As winds come whispering lightly from the! 

west, [rene: — ! 

Kissing, not ruffling, the bhie deep's se- 

Here Harold was received a welcome guest; 

Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 

For many a joy could he from Night's soft 

presence glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly 

blazed, [fast,* 

The feast was done, the red wine circling 

And he that unawares had there ygazed 

With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 

For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was 

The native revels of the troop began ; [past. 

Each Palikarf his sabre from him cast. 

And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to 

man, [kirtled clan. 

Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the 

LXXI I. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood. 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie. 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee : 
And as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing 

free, [stream'd. 

The long wild locks that to their girdles 

While thus in concert they this lay half sang, 

half screamed: J 

Tambourgi! Tambourgi!§ thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of 
war; [note. 

All the sons of the mountains arise at the 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark SulioteI|| 

Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his 
wild flock, [from the rock. 

And descends to the plain like the stream 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance 

forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 



* The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and indeed very few (;f the others. 

t Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
from HaAtKapt, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
Greeks and Albancse who speak Romaic ; it means, 
properly, " a lad." 

X See long Note at the end of the volume for a speci- 
men of the Albanian dialect. 

§ Drummer. 

II These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
ncse songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the 
exposition of the Albancse in Romaic and Italian. 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the 
chase : [before 

But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the 
weaves, [slaves. 

And teach the pale Franks what it is to be 

Shall leave on the beach the long galley and 
oar. 

And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
Shall win the young bride with her long 
flowing hair, [tear. 

And many a maid from her mother shall 

I love the fair face of the maid in her youth; 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall 
soothe: [toned lyre. 

Let her bring from her chamber the many- 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

Remember the moment when Previsa fell,* 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' 

yell; [shared, 

The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we ^ 

spared. m 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; -^ 

He neither must know who would serve the 
Vizier; [ne'er saw 

Since the days of our prophet the Crescent 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow^-hair'df Giaours view his 

horsetail with dread; 
When his Delhis % come dashing in blood 

o'er the banks, [ranks! 

How few shall escape from the Muscovite 

Selictar ! § unsheath then our chiefs 
scimitar: [war. 

Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of 

Ye mountains that see us descend to the 
shore, 

Shall view us as victors or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth !|| 
Immortal, though no more, though fallen, 
great ! 



* It was taken by storm from the French, 
t Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. Giaour: 
infidel. Horsetail: the insignia of a Pacha. 
X Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 
§ "Selictar," sword-bearer. 
II See Note at end of volume. 



l8l2. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



193 



Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children 

forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from 

the tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of Freedom, when on Phyle's brow* 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour 

which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish 
hand,f [unmann'd. 

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, 

LXXV. 
In all save form alone, how changed! and 

who [^ye> 

That marks the fire still sparkling in each 
Who would but deem their bosoms burn'd 

anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their father's heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's 

mournful page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 

Who would be free themselves must strike 

the blow? [wrought? 

By their right arms the conquest must be 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers 

low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe: 
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still 

the same; [shame. 

Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower [wrest; 



* Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
has still considerable remains. It was seized by Thrasy- 
bulus previous to the expulsion of the 1 hirty. 

t See Note at end of volume. 



Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;* 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, f 
May wind their path of blood along the 

West; 
But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil. 
But slave succeed to slave through years of 

endless toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin. 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball. 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 



And whose more rife with merriment than 

thine, 
O Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her 

throng, [feign; 

All felt the common joy they now must 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such 

song, [along. 

As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore; 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her 

tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar. 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting 

shone; [wave. 

And when a transient breeze swept o'er the 
'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly 

throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave. 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to Jight the 

banks they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the 

land. 
No thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 



♦ When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
years. 

t Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by 
the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
13 



194 



CIIILDE IL I /: OLirS riL GRIMA GE. 



1812. 



Exchanged the look few bosoms may wilh- 

sland, 

Or gently prcst, returned the pressure still: 

Oh Love! young Love I bound in thy rosy 

Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, [band, 

These hours, and only these, redeem Life's 

years of ill I 

LXXXII. 
But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret 

pain, [tray'd? 

Even through the closest searment half be- 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern 

disdain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the 

shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of 

Greece, [boast: 

If Greece one true-born patriot still can 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace. 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he 

lost. 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost. 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe 

thee most — [record 

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime 

Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate 

horde? 

LXXXIV, 

When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts 

endued, [men. 

When Grecian mothers shall give birth to 
Then may'st thou be restored; but not till 

then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to for m a state; 
An hour may lay it in the dust, and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendor renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time 

and Late? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe. 
Land (jf lost gods and godlike men, art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,* 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied fa,vorite now; 

* On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
tense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the 
plains, even in winter. 



Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth; 

L XXX VI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave;* 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave;f 
Save o'er some warrior's half- forgotten grave. 
Where the grey stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
While strangers only not regardless pass. 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and 
sigh *' Alas!" 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy 

fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
And still his honey'd wealth Hymettus 

yields; 



* Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 
dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The 
modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave 
formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the end 
of time. 

t In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Mara- 
thon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape 
Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns 
are an inexhaustible source of observation and design ; 
to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of I'lato's 
conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller 
will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over 
" isles that crown the yEgean deep ;" but, for an English- 
man, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the 
actual spot of Falconer's shipwreck. Pallas and Plato 
are forgotten, in the recollection of Falconer and Camp- 
bell : 

** Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep. 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great 
distance. In two journeys which I made, and one voy- 
age to Cape Colonna, the view from either side by land 
was more striking than the approach from the isles. In 
our second land excursion we had a narrow escape from 
a party of Mainotes concealed in the caverns beneath. 
We were told afterwards by one of their prisoners, sub- 
sequently ransomed, that they were detened from 
attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians : 
conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a 
complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they re- 
mained stationary, and thns saved our party, which was 
too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. 
Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates: 
there 

" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk. 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." — 

(See Hodgson's i^/^/y Jane Grejy,&.c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for 
herself. I was fortunate enough to engage a very 
superior German artist, and hope to renew my acquaint- 
ance with this and many other Levantine scenes by the 
arrival of his performances. 



I8I2. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



195 



There the bli|:he bee his fragrant fortress 

builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread,'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, j 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around. 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes oar earliest dreams have dwelt 

upon : [wold. 

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples 

gone: [Marathon. 

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless 

fame; 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, [sword, 
When Marathon became a magic word;* 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's 

career. 

XC. 
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain 

below. 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth 

here? [ground. 

What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd 

Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 

The rifled urn, the violated mound, 

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! 

spurus around. 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, 
throng; 

*" Siste Viator— heroa calcas !" was the epitaph on the 
famous Count Merci; — what, then, must be our feelings 
when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
(Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barrow 
has recently been opened by Fauvei: few or no relics, as 
vases, &c., were found by the excavator. The plain of 
Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of six- 
teen thousand piastres, about nine hundred pounds ! 
Alas! — " Expende— quot libras in ducc summo— in- 
venies !" — was the dust of Miltiades worth no more ? It 
could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 



Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal 

tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore : 
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome 

hearth; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred 
side, [Persian died. 

Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and 
XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste: 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed. 
Revere the remnants nations once revered: 
So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was 
rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd! 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious 

lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial 

praise, [approve. 

Since cold each kinder heart that might 

And none are left to please where none are left 

to love. 



Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to 

me; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! 
Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer 

home, [shall see — 

Who mourns o'er hours which we no more 



196 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1816, 



Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause 
to roam ! 

xcvi. 
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far re- 
moved ! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, 
thou hast: [friend; 

The parent, friend, and now the more than 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to 
lend. 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly 
loud, 



False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they 

cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique? 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled 

sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the 

brow? [P^g^» 

To view each loved one blotted from life's 
And be alone on earth, as lam now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd: 
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye 

flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul en- 

joy'd, [alloy'd. 

And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

1816. 

" Afin que cette application vous forcat de penser a autre chose; il n'y a en verit6 de rcmede que celui-lk ct 
k temps. — Lettre du Roi de Prusse a LrAlemberty Sept. 7, 1776. 

III. 
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I sieze the theme, then but begun. 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up 

tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind. 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life — where not a flower 
appears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — joy, or 
pain, [string. 

Perchance my heart and harp have lost a 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful 
theme. 

V. 

He, who grown aged in this world of woe. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they 

smiled. 
And then we parted, — not as now we part. 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave around me; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by. 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve 

or glad mine eye. 

II. 
Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their 

roar ! 
Swift be their guidance wheresoe'er it lead! 
Though the strain'dmast should quiver as a 

reed. 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the 
Still must I on; for I am as a weed, [gale, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to 

sail [breath prevail. 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's 



i8i6. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



197 



So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet 

rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's 

haunted cell. 

VI. 

'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou. 
Soul of my thought : with whom I traverse 
Invisible, but gazing, as I glow [earth, 

Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feel- 
ings' dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to 

tame. 

My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too 

late! [same 

Yet am I changed: though still enough the 

In strength to bear what time cannot abate, 

And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 

VIII. 

Something too much of this : — but now 'tis 

past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Harold reappears at last; 
He of the breast which fain no more would 

feel, [ne'er heal ; 

Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age: years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near 

the brim. 

IX. 
His had been quafPd too quickly, and he 
found [again, 

The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deemed its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though un- 
seen, [pain. 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with 



Which pined although it spoke not, and 

grew keen, [a scene. 

Entering with every step he took through many 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind. 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many 

stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to 
Fit speculation; such as in strange land [find 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 

hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen'drose, nor seek 
To wear it? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 

cheek. 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds 

unfold 
. The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 

prime. 

XII. 
But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man; with whom he 

held 
Little in common; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 

quell'd [pell'd. 

In youth by his own thoughts; still uncom- 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
Proud though in desolation; which could 

find [kind. 

A life within itself, to breathe without man- 

XIII. 

Where rose the . mountains, there to him 
were friends; [home; 

Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, ex- 
tends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft 
forsake [lake. 

For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the 



198 



CHILD E JIAR OLD'S PIL GRLVA GE. 



1816. 



XIV, 1 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the! 
stars, ; 

Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams; and earth, and earth- 
born jars, ' 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, i 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink: 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos 
us to its brink. 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wald-born falcon with dipt 

wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home ; 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom 
eat. 

XVI. 

Self- exiled Harold wanders forth again, I 
With nought of hope left, but with less of j 

gloom; I 

The very knowledge that he lived in vain, j 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, \ 
Which, though 'twere wild — as on the plun- ; 

der'd wreck I 

When mariners would madly meet their 

doom [deck — 

With draughts intemperate on the sinking 

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to 

check. 

XVII. 

Stop! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest 

grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
Thou first and last of fields! king-making 
Victory? 

XVIII. 
And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 1 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!! 
liow in an hmw the power which gave annuls 



Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! 
In** pride ofplace"* here last the eagle flew. 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
IMerced by the shaft of banded nations 

through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain: 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's 
broken chain. 

XIX. 
Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit, 
And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones? No; prove be- 
fore ye praise! 

XX. 
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot 

tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the 

accord 
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant 
lord.f 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's cajjital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 

men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake 

again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell;}: 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a 

rising knell! 

XXII. 
Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 



* " In pride of place " is a term of falconry, and means 
the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c. 

" An eagle towering in his pride of place," &c. 
t See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
The best English translation is in Blajufs Anthology, by 
Mr. (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman: 

" With myrtle my sword will Iwreathe," &c. 
X On the night previous tP thQ JlCtion, it J5 5ai4 that % 

ball was given at Brvisgels. 



i8i6. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



199 



On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- 
ure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. 
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once 

. more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening 
roar ! I 

XXITI. I 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall j 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 1 
That sound, the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 
ear; [near, 

And when they smiled because he deem'd it 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone 
could quell : [ir»g, fell. 

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- 



Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
tress. 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as 

press 
The life from out young hearts, and chok- 
ing sighs [guess j 
W^hich ne'er might be repeated: who could i 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, ' 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 
could rise! 



And there was mounting in hot haste: the 
steed, [car, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! 
They come! they come!" 



And wild and high the *' Cameron's gather- 
ing" rose. 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 
foes ; 



How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath whicli 

fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 

clansman's ears!* 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green 

leaves, f 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall 

grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of 

strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array! [^ent 

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 

pent, [burial blent! 

Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red 

XXIX. 
Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than 

mine; [throng. 

Yet one I would select from that proud 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong. 
And partly that bright names will hallow 

song; [shower'd 

And his was of the bravest, and when 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files 

along, [lower'd, 

Even where the thickest of war's tempest 

They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, 

young, gallant Howard! 



* Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
"gentle Lochiel" of the *' forty-five.*' 

t The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, 
and immortal in Shakspeare's As You Like It. It is also 
celebrated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful de- 
fence by the Germans against the Roman enroachments. 
I have ventured to adopt the name connected with 

nobler aosociations than those of m?rc slaughter. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



i8i6. 



There have been tears and breaking hearts 

for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green 

tree, [Hve, 

Which living waves where thou didst cease to 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
\Yith fruits and fertile promise, and the 

Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she 

could not bring.* 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must 
awake [sound of Fame 

Those whom they thirst for; though the 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd, but assumes a stronger, bitterer 
claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length; and, 

smiling, mourn: 
The tree will wither long before it fall; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be 

torn; [hall 

The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the 
In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall [gone; 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are 



* My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Major How- 
ard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there 
was a third, cut down, or shivered, in the battle), which 
stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. 
Beneath these he died and was buried. The body has 
since been removed to England. A small hollow for the 
present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be 
effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the gram is. 
After pomting out the different spots where Picton and 
other gallant men had perished, the guide said, *' Here 
Major Howard lay : 1 was near him when wounded." 
1 told him my relationship, and he seemed then still 
more anxious to pomt out the particular spot and cir- 
cumstances. The place ls one of the most marked in 
the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees above 
mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the 
field, comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes 
As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of 
some great action, though this may be mere imagination. 
I have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, ! 
Mantmca, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon, and the 
field around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to 
want little but a better cau-e, and th.,t undefmablc bm 
impressi\ e nalo which the lapse of ages throws around 
a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of 
these, except perhaps the last mentioned. I 



The bars survive the captive they enthral; 
The day drags through though storms keep 
out the sun; [live on: 

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 
XXXIII. 
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it 
breaks; [sakes, 

And thus the heart will do which not for- 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 
Yet withers on till all without is old, [aches, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are 
untold. 

XXXIV. 
There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root [were 
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it .- 
As nothing did we die; but life will suit j| 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, < 

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,* 
All ashes to the taste: Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would 
he name threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of 

man; 
They are enough : and if thy tale be irue^ 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleet- 
ing span. 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and 
say, [drew, 

** Here, where the sword united nations 
Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
And this is much, and all which will not pass 
away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been be- 
twixt, [been; 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of 
the scene! 

* The (fabled) apples on the br nk of the lake As- 
phaltes were said to be fair without and within ashes 

Vide Tacitus, Histor, lib. v. 7. 



i8i6. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



20 1 



Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild 

name [now 

Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than 
That thou art nothing save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou 

didst assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the field; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, 

now [yield: 

More than thy meanest soldier taught to 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, 

rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust 

of war, [loftiest star, i 

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the 



Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning 
With that untaught innate philosophy, [tide 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy, [pride. 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 

smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite 

child, [piled. 

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could con- 
temn 
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel. 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, [not so 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
choose. 

XLI. 
If, like a tower upon a headland rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall 
alone, [shock; 

Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the 



But men's thoughts were the steps which 

paved thy throne. 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide 

a den.* 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
And the7'e hath been thy bane; there is afire 
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core. 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made 

men mad 
By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 

things [springs. 

Which stir too strongly the soul's secret 
And are themselves the fools to those they 

fool; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a 

school [or rule : 

Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine 

XLIV, 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last. 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past. 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

Fie who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 
snow; 

* The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our 
annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of 
his want of all community of feeling for or with them ; 
perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. Suck 
were his speeches to public assemblies as well as indi- 
viduals ; and the single expression which he is said to 
have used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter 
had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire. 
"This is plcasanter t>an rNloscow," v/ould probably 
alienate more favor from his cause than the destruction 
and reverses which led to the remark. 



CHI. IDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1816. 



He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round\\\\\i are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head. 
And thus reward the toils which to those sum- 
mits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will 
Within its own creation, or in thine, [be 
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? | 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, i 

A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, moun- 
tain, vine, [wells 
And chiefless castles breathing stern fare- 
From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 
dwells. 

XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd; 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind. 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and 

proud. 

Banners on high, and battles pass'd below; 

But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 

And those which waved are shredless dust 

ere now, [blow. 

And the bleak battlements shall bear no future 



Beneath these battlements, within those 
walls, [state 

Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls. 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws conquerors should 
have* [great? 

But History's purchased page to call them 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls 
were full as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their 
shields, [pride. 

With emblems well devised by amorous 



* " What wants that knave that a king should have ?" 
was Kin^ James's question on meeting Johnny Armstrong 
aad hik ioliuwers \x* full accoutreniencs.— .Seo tht B»llar(i. 



Through all the mail of iron hearts would 
glide; [on 

But still their flame was fierceness, and drew 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a towerfor some fair mischief won. 
Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 
But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they How 
Through banks whose beauty would endure 

forever. 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such 

to me [should Lethe be. 

Even now what wants thy stream? — that it 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd 

away, [ranks : 

And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting , 

dream [they seem. 

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensible to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song [dear; 
In glens which might have made even exile 
Though on his brow were graven lines aus- 
tere. 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, [place 
Joy was not always absent from his face, ; 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with 
transient trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his 

days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness,though disgust 
Hathwean'd it from all worldlings: thus he 

felt, [trust 

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet 
In one fond breast, to which his own would 

melt, [dwelt. 

And in its tenderer hour on that hisi busom 



k 



i8i6. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



203 



And he had learn'd to love — I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of 

mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurtm-e; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to 

grow, [to glow. 

In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased 
LV. . 
And there was one soft breast, as hath been 

said, 

Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal; and, though 

unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By perit^ dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absent 

greetings pour! 

The castled crag of Drachenfels* 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
W^hose far white Avails along them shine, 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thott with me! 

And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers. 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers [grey. 
Through green leaves lift their walls of 
And many a rock which steeply lours, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

I send the lilies given to me; 

Though long before thy hand they touch. 



* The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sum- 
mit of "The Seven JMountains," over the Rhine banks ; 
it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tradi- 
tions. It is the first in view on the road from Bonn, but 
on the opposite side of the river. On this bank, nearly 
facing it, are the remains of another, called the Jew's 
Castle, and a large cross commemorative of the murder 
of a chief by his brother. The number of castles and 
cities .'ilong the course of the Rhine on both sides is very 
great; and their $ituatipn§ remarkably beautiful. 



I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear. 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine! 

The river nobly foams and flows. 
The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine. 

LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the ropgh 

soldier's lid. 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled tc 

resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 
career, — [foes; 

His mourners were two hosts, his friends and 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those. 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er 
him wept.* 



* The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen on the 
last day of the fourth year of the French Republic) still 
remains as described. The inscriptions on his monument 
are rather too long, and not required — his name was 
enough. France adored, and her enemies admired ; both 
wept over him. His funeral was attended by the gen- 
erals and detachments from both armies. In the same 
grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in 
every sense of the word ; but though he distinguished 
himself greatly in battle, Jie had not the good fortune to 
die there : his death was attended by suspicions of 
poison. A separate monument (not over his body, 
which is buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near 
Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memora- 
ble exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an 
iiland on the Rhine < '^ he shape find 5tyle arQ 4ifer^( 



204 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1816. 



LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein,* with her shattered 

wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and 

ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light; 
A tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watched along the plain : 
But Peace destroyed what War could never 

blight, [rain — 

And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's 

'Jn which the iron shower for years had pour'd 

in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long de- 
lighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
And could the ceaseless vulture cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is color'd by thy every hue; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign [Rhine! 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting 

praise: [shine, 

More mighty spots may rise — more glaring 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft; — the glories of 

old days. 

LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen. 



from that of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple 
and pleasing : " The Army of the Sambre and Meuse to 
its Commander-in-Chief, Hoche." This is all, and as it 
should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first of 
France's earlier generals, before Bonaparte monopolized 
her triumphs. He was the destined commander of the 
invading army of Ireland. 

♦Ehrenbreitstein, i. €.» "the broad stone of honor," 
one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled 
and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. 
It had been, and could only be, reduced by famine or 
treachery. It yielded to the former, aided by surprise. 
After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and 
Malta, it did not much strike by comparison; but the sit- 
uation is commanding. Cieneral Marceau besieged it in 
vain f.r some time; and I slept in a room where 1 v/as 
shown a window at which he was said t(j have been 
standing, olJ^c^vi^g the progress of the sicj;e 1 y moon- 
light, when a ball struck immediately below it. 



The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls 

between, [been 

The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets 
In mockery of man's art: and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires 

near them fall. 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled iaclouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave 
vain man below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to 

scan. 
There is a spot should not be passed in 

vain, — [man 

Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that 

plain; [host, 

Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument; — the Stygian 

coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 

wandering ghost.* 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely 
cause 



*The chapel is destroyed and the pyramid of bones 
diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion 
in the service of France, who an.xiously efiaced this 
record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A 
few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the 
Burgundians of all ages (all who passed that way remov- 
ing a bone to their own country), and the less justifiable 
larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to 
sell for knife-handles, — a purpose for which the whiteness 
imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in 
great request. 

Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as 
may have made a quarter of a hero, for which the sole 
excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-by might have 
perverted them to worse uses than the careful preserva- 
tion I intend for them. 



i8i6. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



205 



Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic 
clause. 



By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years. 
And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it 
Making a marvel that it not decays, [stands. 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject 
lands.* 

LXVI. 

And there — oh! sweet and sacred be the 

name! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a 

claim [grave. 

Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would 

crave 
The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not 

save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, 

one dust.f 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass 
away, [earth 

And names that must not wither, though the 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death 

and birth; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth. 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe. 
And from its immortality look forth 



*Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

tjulia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to 
death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was 
discovered many years ago. It is thus: "Julia Alpinula: 
Hie jaceo. Infelicis patris infelix proles. Deae Aventiae 
Sacerdos. Exorare patris necem non potui: Male mori 
in fatis ille erat. Vixi annos xxiii." ^ I know of no human 
composition so affecting as this, norV4 history of deeper 
interest. These are the names and actions which ought 
not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and 
healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering de- 
tail of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with 
which the mind is roused for a time to a false and fever- 
ish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all 
the nausea consequent on such intoxication. 



In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,* 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVIII. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face. 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue; [through 

There is too much of man here, to look 
With a fit mind the might which I behold; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of 

old, [their fold. 

Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In one hot throng, where we become the 
Of our infection, till too late and long [spoil 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where none 
are strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears. 
And color things to come with hues of Night : 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness; on the sea. 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd 
ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 
Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, f 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 

Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict 
or bear? 



*This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc June 3d, 
1816), which even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 
2oth.) — I this day observed for some time the distinct re- 
flection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm 
of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat, 'i he dis- 
tance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty miles. 

tThe color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth 
of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt 
or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 



2o6 



CniLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



iSi6. 



LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me: and to me, 
Pligh mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture; I can see i 

Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can 

flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast. 
To act and suff"er, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our 
being cling. 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form. 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the im- 
mortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? [part 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and 
A tide of suffering rather than forego [stem 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly 

phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below. 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which 

dare not glow ? 

LXXVI. 
But this is not my theme; and I return 
To that wliich is immediate, and require 
Those who fmd contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for awhile-^a passing guest, 
Where he became a being — whose desire 



Was to be glorious : 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all 
rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous- 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw [seau. 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched; yet 

he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly 
hue [past 

Of words like sunbeams, dazzling as they 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- 
ingly and fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though 
it seems, 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss* 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would 

greet, [meet: 

From hers who but with friendship his would 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

breast [heat; 

Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek • 

possest. 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought 

foes. 
Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 



* This refers to the account in his Coyifcssions of hiB 
passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. 
Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sake 
of the single kiss which was the common salutation of 
French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of hisfeel- 
in^^s on this occasion may be considered as the most pas- 
sionate, yet not impure, description and expression of 
love that ever kindled into words ; which, after all, must 
be felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the 
delineation. A painting can give no sufficient idea of 
the ocean. 



i8i6. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



^07 



'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and 
blind. [know ? 

But he was frenzied, — wherefore, who may 
Since cause might be which skill could never 
But he was frenzied by disease or woe [find ; 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a rea- 
soning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired,and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no 

more : 
Did he not this for France, which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows 

o'ergrown fears? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which 

grew, [rent, 

Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view, 
But good with ill they also overthrew. 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 

refill'd, [will'd. 

As heretofore, because ambition was self- 

LXXXIII. 
But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made 

it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had 

dwelt. 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
W^hat marvel then, at times, if they mistook 

their prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a 
scar? [wear 

Th.e heart's bleed longest, and but heal to 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been van- 

quish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the 
hour [spair : 

Which shall atone for years; none need de- 



It came, it cometh, and will come, — the 

power . [slower. 

To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake. 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
W^hich warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have 
been so moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet 

clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights 

appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from the 

shore, [ear 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 

carol more; 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven. 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 
themselves a star. 



All heaven and earth are still — though not in 

sleep, [most; 

But breathless, as we grow when feeling 



2o8 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1816. 



And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 

deep : — . [host 

All heaven and earth are still : From the high 
Of stars, to the luU'd lake and mountain- 
coast. 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence, 
xc. 
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone; 
A truth which through our being then doth 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, [melt, 
The soul and source of music, which makes 

known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould 

disarm [harm. 

The spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
xci. 
Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus 

take* 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and 

compare 
Columns and idol dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and 

air, [prayer! 

Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy 
XCII. 
The sky is changed! — and such a change! 

O night, f [strong. 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags 

among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone 

cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

XCIII. 
And this is in the night: — Most glorious 

night! 
Theu wert not sent for slumber! let me be 



♦See Note at end of volume. 

tXhe thunder-storm to which these lines refer oc- 
curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 
seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains at Chimari, 
several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 



A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — 
A portion oi the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now,the glee. 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- 
mirth, [birth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 

xciv. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his 

way between [parted 

Heights which appear as lovers who have 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted! [thwarted. 
Though in their souls, which thus each other 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then 

departed: 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters — war within themselves 

to wage. 

xcv. 
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft 

his way, [stand: 

The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to 

hand. 
Flashing and cast around: of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 

fork'd J 

His lightnings — as if he did understand ^ 

That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever 

therein lurk'd. 



Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- 
nings! ye, [soul 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful; the far 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll [roll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high 
nest? 

XCVII. 
Could I embody and unbosom now [wreak 
That which is most within me, — could I 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong 

or weak. 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 



i8i6. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



209 



Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 

word, [speak; 

And that one word were Lightning, I would 

But as it is, I live and die unheard, [sword. 

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 

XCVIII. 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all 

bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day: we may resume 
The march of our existence: and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find 
And food for meditation, nor pass by [room 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd| 

fittingly. I 

xcix. I 

Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep! 

Love! [thought;! 

Thine air is the young breath of passionate | 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them 

wrought* 
By rays which sleep there lovingly; the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, 

who sought 
In them a refuge from the w^orldly shocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that 

woos, then mocks. 

c. 

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are 

trod— 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains; where 

the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 

blown, [power 

His soft and summer breath, whose tender 

Passes the strength of storms in their most 

desolate hour. 

CI. 
All things are here of him; from the black 

pines, [roar 

Which are his shade on high, and the loud 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to 

the shore. 
Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, 

♦ See Note at end of volume. 



Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 

The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 

But light leaves, young as joy, stands where 

it stood. 

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more swett 

than words. 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which 

brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty 

end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn 

that lore. 
And make his heart a spirit; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more. 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's 

woes, [from those. 

And the world's waste, have driven him far 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity! 



'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this 

spot, 
Peopling it with affections; but he found 
It was the scene which Passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the 

ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone. 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the 

Rhone [rear'd a throne. 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have 

CV. 

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the 
abodes [name ;* 

Of names which unto you bequeath'd a 
Mortals, who sought and found, by danger- 
ous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : [aim 

They were gigantic minds, and their steep 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 

* Voltaire and Gibbon. 
14 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGKLMAGE. 



1816. 



Thoughts which should call down thunder, 

and the flame [while 

Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the 

On man and man's research could deign do 

more than smile. 

cvi. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind [wild, — 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined: 
He multiplied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents: But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the 
wind [prone, — 

Blew where it listed, laying all things 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a 
throne. 



The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe. 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew 

from fear. 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 
Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them. 
If merited, the penalty is paid; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; 
The hour must come when such things shall 

be made 
Known unto all, or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie de- 

cay'd; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

cix. 
But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her eml^race compels the powers 
of air. 

ex. 
Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 



Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages [thee. 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages; [still. 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quafiing there her 

fill, [perial hill. 

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's im- 
cxi. 
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or 

aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is 

taught. 

CXII. 
And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; [got. 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or for- 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world 

me; [bow'd 

I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor 

To its idolatries a patient knee, — [aloud 

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried 

In worship of an echo; in the crowd [stood 

They could not deem me one of such; I 

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, 

and still could, [subdued. 

Had I not filed* my mind, which thus itself 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world 

But let us part fair foes; I do believe, [me, — 

Though I have found them not, that there 

may be [not deceive. 

Words which are things, — hopes which will 

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 

Snares for the failing; I would also deem 

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ;t 

♦ — " If it be thus, 
For Banquo*s issue have \ filed my mind." — Macbeth. 
t It is said by Rochefoucault that "there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
displeasinL^ to them." 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21- 



That two, or one, are almost what they 

seem, — [dream. 

That goodness is no name, and happiness no 

cxv. . 
My daughter! with thy name this song be- 
gun — [shall end — 
My daughter! with thy name thus much 
I see thee not, I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend: 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend 
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's 
mould. 

ex VI. 

To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for 
Yet this was in my nature: — As it is, [me; 
I know not what is there, yet something like 
to this. 



ex VI I. 
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be 

taught, [name 

I know that thou wilt love me; though my 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 

fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, — 

— 'twere the same, [drain 

I know that thou wilt love me, though to 

My blood from out thy being were an aim. 

And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than 

life retain. 

exviii. 
The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far 

higher. 

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea. 

And from the mountains where I now respire, 

Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee. 

As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been 

to me! 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



1818. 



•* Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 

Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 

Italia, e un mare e T altro, che la bagna." 

Ariosto, Satira iii. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A.M., F.R.S., 



&€., &C., &C. 



Venice, January 2, 1818. 



My dear Hobhouse, 

After an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the 
conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extra- 
ordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, 
and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — though not 
ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, — 
to one, whom I have known long and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind 
in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril, — to a friend 
often tried and never found wanting; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth; and in dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, 
a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wLsh to do 



CHJLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



honor to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honor. 
It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to 
the voice of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, 
or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus 
attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. 
Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence,* 
but which cannot poison my future while I retain the resource of your friendship and of my own faculties, will 
henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank 
you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without think- 
mg better of his species and of himself 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable 
— Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice 
and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to 
last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition 
which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; 
and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of 
our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling 
for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of 
regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the pre- 
ceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I 
had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in 
Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, 
and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to pre- 
serve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, 
that I determined to abandon it altogether— and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, 
formed on that subject, are now a matter of indiff"erence ; the work is to depend on itself and not on the writer : 
and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to 
arise from his hterary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I 
soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections; and for the 
whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited 
to the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis- 
similar; and requires an attention and impartiality which v/ould induce us — though perhaps no inattentive ob- 
servers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode — to dis- 
trust, or at least defer, our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of literary as well as 
political party appears'to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next 
to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language — '' Mi 
pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piii nobile ed insieme la piij dolce, tutte tutte le vie di- 
verse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto I'antico valore, in tutte essa 
dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has great names still: Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, 
Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present gener- 
ation an honorable place in most of the departments of art, science, and belles lettres; and in some the very high- 
est. Europe — the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce piu robustain Italia che in qualunque 
altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to the 
latter part of his proposition — a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, 
namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbors — that man must be willfully blind, 
or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be 
admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their 
genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, 
and the despair of ages, their still unquenched " longing after immortality" — the immortality of independence. 
A.nd when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, 
" Roma I Roma! Roma! Roma non e piii come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge 
with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont 
St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself 
have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, — 

** Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; 
it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the south, " verily 
they will have their reward," and at no very distant period. 

WLshing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how 
truly I am ever, your obliged and affectionate friend, BYRON. 



*His marriage. 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



213 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand: i 

I saw from out the wave her structures rise ; 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand j 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times when many a subject land ; 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, j 

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her| 
hundred isles! ! 

II. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,* 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was; her daughters had their 
dowers [East 

From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 

Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity 
increased. 

III. 
In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows,whose dim forms despond 
Above the Dogeless city's vanishM sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away— 
The keystones of the arch! though all were 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore, [o'er, 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence: that which 

Pro*hibits to dull life, in this our state [Fate 

Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 

* Sabellicus, describing the appearance of Venice, has 
made use of the above image, which would not be poet- 
ical were it not true. — " Quo fit ut qui supenae urbem 
contempletur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Oceano 
figuratam se putet inspicere." 



First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have 
died, [void. 

And with a fresher growth replenishing the 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine 

eye; 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the 
Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go,— 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like 

dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so; 
I could replace them if I would : still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly 

seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights sur- 
round. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange 

eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be. 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If niy fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion 
bar 

X. 
My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head I 



214 



CHILDE HAR OLD'S PIL GRIMA GE. 



1818. 



And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — I 

** Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."* I 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; j 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me — and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring 
from such a seed. i 



The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; i 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, ■ 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, j 

Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood j 
Stand, but in mockery of his withei'd power, I 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor 

sued. 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
\Vhen Venice was a queen with an unequall'd 

dower. 



The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian 

reigns — " [knelt; 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor 

Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and 

chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they 

have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's 

belt: 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquer- 
ing foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gifted collars glittering in the sun; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and 

won, [done. 

Her thirteen hundred years of freedom 
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and 

shun. 
Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous 

repose. 



In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
ller very byword sprung from victory. 



* The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedae 
moiiian general, to the strangers who praised the mem- 
ory of her son. 



The ** Planter of the Lion," * which through 

fire [sea; 

And blood she bore o'er subject earth and 

Though making many slaves, herself still 

free. 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can 
blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptu- 
ous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
?Iave yielded to the stranger: empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as 

must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' 
lovely walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,f 
Her voice their only ransom from afar; 
See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's 
chains, [his strains. 

And bids him thank the bard for freedom and 



Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 
Thy Love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations — most of all, 
Albion, to thee : the Ocean Queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery 
wall. 



I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 



* That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the re- 
public, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon — Pian- 
taleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 

t The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



215 



And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shaks- 

peare's art,* 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a 

show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought. 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or 

sought; [wrought 

And of the happiest moments which were 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors 

caught; [numb, 

There are some feelings time cannot be- 

Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold 

and dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen growf 
Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks. 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine 

shocks [and mocks 

Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose 

blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree; — the mind may grow 

the same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load. 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such examples be; if they. 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or" is destroy'd. 
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event. 
Ends: — Some, with hope replenish'd and 
rebuoy'd, [tent, 

Return to whence they came — with like in- 



* Venice Preserved; Mysteries 0/ Udolpho: The 
Ghost-Seer, or Arjnenian; The Merchant of Venice; 
Othello. 

^ t Tannen is the plural oitanne, a species of fir pecu- 
liar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than 
any other mountain tree. 



And weave their web again; some, bow'd and 
bent, [time. 

Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their 

And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 

Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
According as their souls were form'd to sink 
or climb. 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness im- 
bued; [bring 
And slight withal may be the things which 
Back on the heart the weight which it would 
Aside forever: it may be a sound — [fling 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 
wound, [darkly bound: 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are 

XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind. 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves 

behind. 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — 
The cold — the changed — perchance the 

dead — anew, [yet how few! 

The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many! — 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly 

hand. 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth 

and sea. 



The commonwealth of kings, the men of 

Rome! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility: 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be 
defaced. 



% 



2l6 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1818. 



XXVII. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the 
blest!* 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd 
within it glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from 

afar. 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang im- 
With a new color as it gasps away, [hues 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all 
is grey. 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
PVom the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's 
name [fame. 

With his melodious tears, he gave himself to 

XXXI. 

They keep his dustin Arqua, where he died; 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their 
pride — 



*The above description may seem fantastical or exag- 
gerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an 
Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth), as con- 
templated in one of many rides along the banks of the 
Brenta, near La Mira, 



I An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 

I To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain. 

Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 
XXXII. 
And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt. 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further; and the ray 

Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXIII. 
Developing the mountains, leaves, and 

flowers, 
And shining in the brawling brook, where- 
by, [hours 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering 
With a calm languor, which, though to the 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. [eye 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone — man with his God 
must strive: 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair* 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek 

their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had 
worn before. 



* The struggle is to the full as likely to be with 
demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the 

j wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our 
unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child 

I to complete solitude, 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



217 



XXXVI. j 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. ' 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! | 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. 
The miserable despot could not quell [blend 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name 
attend 

XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time, while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink [line 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted 
Is shaken into nothing; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest 
to mourn: 

XXXVIII. 

Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die. 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty; 
He ! with a glory round his furrow 'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
No strain which shamed his country's creak- 
ing lyre, [wire! 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows — but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions; but how 
The tide of generations shall roll on, [long 
And not the whole combined and countless 

throng [one 

Compose a mind like thine? Though all in 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would 

not form a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd 
A new creation with his magic line, [forth 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, [worth. 
Sang ladye-love and war,romance and knightly 



The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory 

weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
And the false semblance but disgraced his 

brow: 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred 

now. 

XLII. 

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by 

shame. 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
O God! *that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst 

claim [press 

Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who 

To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy 

distress; 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal; or, less de- 
sired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms; then, still un- 

tired, 
Would not be seen the armdd torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile 

horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's 

sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, [foe.* 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of 

him,f [mind. 

The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal 



* The two stanzas XLII. and XLIII. are, with the ex- 
ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous son- 
net of Filicaja: — " Italia, Italia, O tu cui feola sorte !" 

t The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, 
on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and 
now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea 
and land, in different journeys and voyages. " On my 
return from Asia, as 1 was sailing from ifegina towards 
Megara, I began to contemplate the prospect of the coun- 
tries around me: iEgina was behind, Megara before me; 
Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns, 
once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and 
buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but 
think presently within myself, Alas ! how do we poor 
mortals fret and vex ourselves if any of our friends hap- 



CHILDE HAROLD'S FILGRhMAGE. 



1818. 



The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
^tgina lay, Pirceiis on the right. 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; 

XLV. 

For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more 

endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil- 
grimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the 
storm, [pass 

In the same dust and blackness, and we 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,* [warm. 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are 

XLVII. 
Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should wring, and shall, from 

side to side; 
Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand 
W^asthen our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our Religion! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, [driven. 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
W' here the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps. 



pen to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, when 
the carcasses of so many noble cities lie here exposed be- 
fore me in one view." — See Middleton's Cicero, vol. ii. 
P- 371. 

* It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill 
upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, 
" Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar 
gigantci cadaveris corrupt! atque undique cxesi." 



Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. 

And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new 
morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and 
The air around with beauty; we inhale [tills 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
W^hat Mind can make, when Nature's self 
And to the fond idolaters of old [would fail; 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could 

mould: 

L. 
We gaze and turn away, and know not 

where, [heart 

Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the 
Reels with its fulness ; there — forever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away! — there need no words, nor terms pre- 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, [cise, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes; 
Blood, — pulse, — and breast, confirm the Dar- 

dan Shepherd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish 'd Lord of 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, [War? 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek!* while thy lips 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, [arc 

Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as 
from an urn ! 

LII. 
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve. 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest! but the 
Of earth recoils upon us; — let it go ! [weignt 
We can recall such visions, and create 
From what has been, or might be, things 
which grow, [low. 

Into thy statue's form, and look like gods be- 

LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 



**0</)^aA/u.ou? eartai'. 
' Atque oculos pascat uterque suos. " — Ovid. Amor. Mh.il 



i8i8. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



219 



Let these describe the undescribable: 

I would not their vile breath should crisp 

the stream 
Wherein that image shall forever dwell; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to 

beam. 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, [and this 
Though there were nothing save the past, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his. 
The starry Galileo, with his woes; [rose. 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the ele- 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [ments, 
Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten 

thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he [they, 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did 
they lay [clay 

Their bones, distinguish'd from our common 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust. 
And have their country's marbles nought to 
say? [bust? 

Could not her quarries furnish forth one 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth en- 
trust? 

LVII. 

JLTngratefuI Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name forevermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages; and the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely 
.Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, [wore, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — 
not thine own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among. 



With many a sweet and solemn requiem 

breathed [tongue? 

O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren 

That music in itself, whose sounds are song. 

The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb 

Uptorn, must bear the hy?ena bigots' wrong. 

No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for 

whom I 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust: 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, 
and weeps. 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the 

dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the 

princely head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and 

eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine. 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister 

vies; [mine; 

There be more marvels yet — but not for 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries; though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which 

it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the 

shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 



1818. 



And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their 

gore, [scatter'd o'er. 

Reek through the sultry plain, with legions 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring 
nations meet! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel: Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and 
the birds [draw 

Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and with- 
From their down-toppling nests; and bel- 
lowing herds [dread hath no words. 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath 

ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine 

rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling 

waters red. 

LXVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest w^ave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou 

dost rear [steer 

Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white 
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear: 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by 

slaughters — [daughters! 

A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 



Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
' Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily 
sails [bubbling tales. 

Down where the shallower wave still tells its 



Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace 
Along this margin a more eloquent green. 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of w^aters! — from the headlong 

height 
Velino cleaves the wave- worn precipice; 
The fall of waters! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture; while the 

sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jel 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence 
again [round. 

Returns in an unceasing shower, which 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground. 
Making it all one emerald; how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with deliriou.^ 

bound. 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worr 
and rent [fearful ven 

With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms \ 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, ami 

shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by th« 
Of a new world, than only thus to be [throe 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
With many windings through the vale;- 

Look back! 
Lo! where it comes like ?in eternity. 



i 



igi8. 



ClilLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



221 



As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread,* — a matchless 
cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering 

morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,f 
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams un- 
shorn : 
Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
LXXIII. 
Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the 

pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine,}: — might be wor- 

shipp'd more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and 
near, [fear, 

And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of 

LXXIV, 

The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. 
For still they soar'd unutterably high: 



I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Athos, Olympus, /4£tna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's 
aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to 

break. 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he who will his recollections rake, 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latin echoes; I abhorr'd 
Too much to conquer for the poet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word 
by word* 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory; and, though Time 

hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd. 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have 

sought, 



* These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
Ensign Northerton's remarks, " D — n Homo,'* &c. ; but 
the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. I 
wish to express, that we become tired of the task before 
we can comprehend the beauty ; that we learn by rote 
before we can get by heart ; that the freshness is worn 
away, and the future pleasure and advantage deadened 
and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, at an age 
when we can neither feel nor understand the power of 
compositions which it requires an acquaintance with life, 
as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason upon. 



* I saw the Cascata del Marmore of Terni twice, at 
different periods — once from the summit of the precipice, 
and again from the valley below. The lower view is far 

to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one only ; i For the same reason, we can never be aware of the ful- 
but in any point of view, either from above or below, itjness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare ("To 
is worth all the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put be, or not to be," for instance), from the habit of having 
together : the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall them hammered into us at eight years old, as an exer- 
of Arpenaz, &c., are rills in comparative appearance. Of cise, not of mind, but of memory : so that when we are 
the fall of Schaffhausen I cannot speak, not yet having! old enough to enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the ap- 
seen it. petite palled. In some parts of the continent, young 

t Of the time, place and qualities of this kind of iris, I persons are taught from more common authors, and do 
the reader will see a short account in a note to Man- \ not read the best classics till their maturity. I certainly 
fred. The fall lookiso much like " the hell of waters," jdo not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
that Addison thought the descent alluded to by the gulf! towards the place of my education. I was not a slow, 
in which Alecto plunged into the infernal regions. It is ; though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, or can 
singular enough, that two of the finest cascades in Eu- | be, more attached to Harrow than I have always been, 
rope should be artificial — this of the Velino, and the one | and with reason : — a part of the time passed there was 
at Tivoli. The traveller is strongly recommended to j the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor, the Rev. Dr. 
trace the Velino, at least as high as the little lake called I Joseph Drury, was the best and worthiest friend I ever 
Pie' di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian j possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too 
Tempe (Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. iv.), and the an- 1 well, though too late, when I have erred, — and whose 
cient naturalists (Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. \i. cap. Ixii.), i counsels I have but followed when I have done well or 



amongst other b«autiful varieties, remarked the daily 
rainbows of the lake Velinus. A scholar of great name 
has devoted a treatise to this district alone. See Aid. 
Manut. " De Reatina Urbe Agroque," ap. Sallengre, 
Thesaur. tom. i. p. 773. 

X In the greater part of Switzerland, the avalanches 
are known by the name of lauwine. 



wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feeling', to- 
wards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of 
one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and 
veneration— of one who would more gladly boast of 
having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his 
injunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his in- 
structoFs 



222 



CHILD E JIAR OLD'S PLL GRLMA GE. 



i8i8. 



If free to choose, I cannotlnow restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd 

heart, [part. 

Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we 
LXXVIII. 
O Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance? Come 

and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 

way [Ye ! 

O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, 
\Vhose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe ; 
An e;npty urn w^ithin her wither'd hands, 
^Vhose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marbled wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her 
distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood 

and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride : 
She saw her glories star by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and 

wide [site: — 

Temple and tower went down, nor left a 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say,*' Here was, or is," where all is doubly 

night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt, 

and wrap 
All round us; we but feel our way to err; 
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map. 



! And Knowledge spreads them on her ample 
lap; 

But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
I Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap 

Our hands, and cry ** Eureka!" it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas, the lofty city! and alas, 
The trebly hundred triumphs!* and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame 

away ! 
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, [be 
And Livy's pictured page! But these shall 
Her resurrection; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when 

Rome was free! 

LXXXIII, 

O thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's 

wheel, 
Triumphant wSylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to 

feel [due 

The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, [frown 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly 

crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wTeath, — couldst^hou divine 
To what w^ould one day dwindle that which 

made 
Thee more than mortal? and that no supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus 

be laid? 
She who was named Eternal, an(? array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who vcil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- 

piay'd. 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fril'd. 
Her rushing wings — Oh! she who wa? W- 

mighty hail'd! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors; but our own, 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell! — he* 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the 

throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel! Sec 
What crimes it cost to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! But bene?/h 

*Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He is 
followed by Panvinius, and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon 



and the modem writers. 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



123 



His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield 
his breath.* 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former 

course [day 

Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding 

clay. [sway. 

And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous 

way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were 

his doom! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din. 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity. 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die. 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a 
scene? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 

Rome! 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart. 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy 

wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black'd with lightning — dost 

thou yet [charge forget? 

Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are 

dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same 

course steer'd. 
At apish distance; but as yet none have. 



*On the 3rd of September Cromwell gained the victory 
of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained " his crown- 
ing mercy " ot Worcester; and a few years after, on the 
same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortu- 
nate for him, died. 



Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 

wSave one vain man, who is not in the grave. 

But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves 

a slave, 

xc. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with a distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he 

beam'd, 

xci. 
And came, — and saw, — and conquer'd ! But 

the man [flee. 

Who would have tamed his eagles down to 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van. 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart, which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity: 
Coquettish in ambition, — still he aim'd — 
At what? Can he avouch, — or answer what 

he claim'd? 

XCII. 
And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror 

rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have 
An universal deluge, which appears [flow'd, 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! — Rtenew thy rainbow, 

God! 

XCIII. 
What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,* 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves 
the deep, [scale; 

And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest 
Opinion an omnipotence — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 



* " Omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, niliil 
percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt : angustos sensus ; 
imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitas ; in profundo 
veritatem demersara ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris 
circumfusa esse dixerunt." — Academ. 1. 13. The 
eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since 
Cicero wrote this have not removed any of the imper- 
fections of humanity : and the complaints of the ancient 
philosophers may, without injustice or afftctation, b« 
transcribed in a poem written yesterday. 



2:^4 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGlt. 



1818. 



And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale i 

Lesttheir own judgments should become too; 

bright, [have too much light. | 

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth 

xciv. 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
\\'ar for their chains, and rather than be free. 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the 
same tree. 

xcv. 
I speak not of men's creeds, they rest be- 
tween 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly 

seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd. 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the 
proud, [throne; 

And shook them from their slumbers on the 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm 
had done. 

xcvi. 
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Calumbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? 
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled 
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe noi 
such shore? | 

xcvii. I 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit' 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been [crime, 



Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and 

dying. 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little 

worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring 
forth. 

XCIX. 
There is a stern round tower of other days,* 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone. 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; 
What was this tower of strength? within its 
cave [man's grave. 

What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? — A wo- 
c. 
But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and 

fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more— a Roman's bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? Was 

she not 
So honor'd — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or 
they [been 

Who love the lords of others? such have 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. 
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 



ToFreedom'scause, in every age and clime ;^Lo^e from amongst her griefs?— for such the 



Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst 
— his second fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but fly- 
ing, [wind; 



affections are. 



CII, 
died in 



Perchance she died in youth: it may be, 
bow'd [tomb 

With woes far heavier than the ponderous 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eyes, prophetic of the doom 



* Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 

Streams like the thunder-storm against the di Bove. 



i8iS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



225 



Heaven gives its favorites — early death;* yet 

A sunset charm around her, and ilhime [shed 

With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 

Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like 

red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver 

grey 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day [ray 
When they were braided, and their proud ar- 
And lovely form were envied, praised and 

eyed [stray? 

By Rome — But whither would Conjecture 
Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love 

or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb! and other days come back on 
With recollected music, though the tone [me 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin 
leaves behind; 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shattered o'er the 

rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn 

store [steer? 

Enough for my rude boat, where should I 

There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save 

what is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry. 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answer each other on the Palatine, [bright , 
With their large eyes, all glistening grey and 



And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs? — let me not num- 
ber mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower^rown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, col- 
umn strown [steep'd 
In fragments, choked-up vaults and frescoes 
In subterranean damps, where the owl 
peep'd, [halls? 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or 
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning 
reap'd [walls — 
From her research hath been, that these are 
Behold theTmperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty 
falls. 

CVIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales;* 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that 

fails, 
W^ealth, vice, corruption — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast. 
Hath but c?;/^page, — 'tis better written here. 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away 

with words! draw near, 



Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for 

here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crov>^ded in this span; 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 



To yap Qa.V€iv ovk aiaxpov aAA' ala-xpH^': Oavelv, 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poeta Gnomici, p. 231, 

edit. 1784. 



* The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by tliat orator and his con- 
I temporary Romans, has the followir.g eloquent passage: 
— " From their railleries of this kind, on the harbarity 
and misery of our island, one cannot help rejecting on 
the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how 
Rome, once the mistress of the world, the scat of arts, 
empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, and 
poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as wcil as to the 
most contemptible of tj^rants, superstition and religious 
imposture ; while this remote country, anciently the jest 
and contempt of the polite Romans, is become the 
happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing in 
ail the arts and refinements of civil life; yet running, 
perhaps, the same course which Rome itself had run be- 
fore it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; fr^m wealth 
to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience of discipline, 
and corruption of morals : till by a total degeneracy and 
loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a 
prey at last to some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss 
of liberty, losing everything that is valuable, sinks grad- 
ually again into its original barbarism." (See " History 
of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero," sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102.) 
15 



226 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

^ 



1818. 



Till the sun's rays with added flame were 

fiird! [dared to build? 

Whwe are its jiolden roofs? where those who 



Tally was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base! 
What are the laurels of the Ccesar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's? No — 'tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace. 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 
sublime,* 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars; they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would fmd a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth 

reign'd. 

The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But yielded back his conquests: — he was 
Than a mere Alexander, and unstain'd [more 
With household blood and wine, serenely 

wore [adore. 

His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 



Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where 

the steep 
Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race. 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the Conquerors 

heap [low. 

Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field be- 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents 

glow, [Cicero I 

And still the eloquent air breathes — burns wit|i 



The field of freedom, faction, fame, and 
blood; [haled, 

Here a proud people's passions were ex- 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer 
fail'd; [veil'd. 

But long before had Freedom's face been 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



! CXIV. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee. 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi! last of Romans.* While the tree 
Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf. 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's 

chief— [too brief. 

Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas! 
cxv. 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast; \v^hate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair: 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
W^ho found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly 

bodied forth. 

cxvi. 
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 

wrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green wild margin now no more 

erase [sleep, 

Art's works; nor must the delicate waters 

Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 

Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, 

and ivy creep 

cxvii. 
Fantastically tangled; the green hills [grass 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their 

class. 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd 

by its skies. 

ex VIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted 

cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 



♦ The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
Ihat of Aurcliiis by St. Paul. 



* The life and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the 
reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited manu- 
scripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in the 
*' Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto." 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



227 



The purple Midnight veiFd that mystic 

meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the 

greeting 
Of an enamor'd Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle! 

cxix. 
And didst thou not, thy breast to his re- 
plying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in 
sighing, [thine art 

Share with immortal transports? could 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys. 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed 
which cloys? 

cxx. 

Alas! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste. 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the 



eyes, 
Flowers whose 



wild odors 



breathe but 

agonies, [plants' 

And trees whose gums are poison; such the 

Which spring beneath her steps as Passion 

flies 1 

O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants i 

For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

O Love! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see. 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be: 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled 

heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image 

given, [wearied — wrung — and riven. 
A.5 haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation; — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 

seized? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we 

dare 



Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would 
bloom again? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but 

the cure 
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the 

mind's 
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown 

winds; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when 

most undone. 

CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked 

the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at 

first— 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the 

same — 
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 

flame. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could 

have loved: 
Though accident, blind contact, and the 
Necessity of loving, have removed [strong 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust — the dust we 

all have trod. 

cxxvi. 
Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all -blasting tree. 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and 

branches be [like dew — 

The skies which rain their plagues on men 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we 

see — 



228 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



1818. 



And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 

through [new. 

The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever 



Yet let us ponder boldly^' — 'tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, 

confined, [shine 

And bred in darkness, lest the truth should 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will 

couch the blind. 



Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
^Vould build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to 

illume 
This long explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies as- 
sume 

cxxix. 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of 

heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath 

bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, [power 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its 
dower. 



*" At all events," says the author of the "Academical 
Questions," " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that esti- 
mation which it ought to possess. Ihe free and philo- 
sophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of admira- 
tion to the world. Ihis v/as the proud distmctiun of En- 
glishmen, and the lummous source of all their glory. 
Shall we then forget the manly and dignified sentiments 
of our ancestors, to prate in the languat^e of the mother 
or the nurse about our good old prejudices? This is not 
the way to defend the cause of truth. It was not thus 
that our fathers maintained it in the brilliant periods of 
our history. Prejudice may be trusted to guard the out- 
works for a short space of time, while reason slumbers in 
the citadel; but if the latter sink into a lethargy, the 
former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Philos- 
ophy, wisdom, and liberty support each other; he who 
will not reason is a bigot; he who cannot is a fool; and he 
who dares not is a slave." — Vol. i., pref., pp. 14, 15. 



Time! the beautificr of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 

And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of 
thee a gift : 

cxxxi. 
Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a 
And temple more divinely desolate, [shrine 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate: 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have 
worn [mourn ? 

This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not 
CXXXI I. 
And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage 
long — [abyss, 

Thou, who didst call the Furies from the 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart? — Awake! thou 
shalt, and must. 

CXXXIII. 
It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

1 bleed withal, and had it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the 

ground; 
To thee I do devote it — tJiou shalt take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought 

and found, 

Which if /have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet 

awake. 

CXXXIV. 

Andif my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak' 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



229 



The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, | 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my 

curse ! 

cxxxv. 
That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I 

not — [Heaven! — 

Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart 

riven, [away? 

Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey, 
cxxxvi. 
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy [do? 
Have I not seen what human things could 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or 

sigh, [quy. 

Deal round to happy fools its speechless oblo- 

CXXXVII. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its 

fire, [pain; 

And my frame perish even in conquering 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I 

expire; [of. 

Something unearthly, which they deem not 

Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 

Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 

In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 

power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear : 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene [rear 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been. 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen, 
cxxxix. 
And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but 
because 



Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 

'And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 

What matters where we fall to fill the maws 

Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 

Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last dfops, ebbing 

slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 

wretch who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — [sire. 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he ex- 
pire, [your ire. 
And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody 
steam; [ways, 

And here, where buzzing nations choked the 

And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain- 
stream 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 

Here, where the Roman million's blame or 
praise 

Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' 
faint rays [bow'd — 

On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 
strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all years, man, 
have reft away. 



230 



CHILDE HA R OLD'S PIL GRIMA GE, 



1818. 



CXLIV. ! 

But when the rising moon begins to climb \ 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of 

time, [air, | 

And the low night-breeze waves along thei 
The garland-forest, which the grey walls' 

wear, | 

Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;*| 
When the light shines serene, but doth not 

glare, 1 

Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dustj 

ye tread. j 

CXLV. i 

I 

** While stands the Coliseum, Rome shair 

stand ;f 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
And when Rome falls — the World." From 

our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things are 

still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill. 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, 

or what ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesusif — spared and blest by 

time; 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and 

man plods [dome! 

His way through thorns to ashes — glorious 
Shalt thou not last? — Time's scythe and 

tyrants' rods 



"* Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- 
larly gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled 
him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was 
anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the 
world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger at 
Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
should we without the help of the historian. 

t This IS quoted in the " Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire," as a proof that the Coliseum was entire, when 
seen by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at the end of the 
seventh, or the beginning of the eighth, century. 

X " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above ; 
though exposed to repeated fires ; though sometimes 
flooded by the nver, and always open to the rain, no 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as this 
rotundo. It passed with little alteration from the Pagan 
into the present worship ; and so convenient were its 
niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever 
studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic Church." — Forsyth's Italy , p. 137, 
tfd edit. 



Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVI I. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts 
around them close.* 



There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear 

lightf 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my 

sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar: — but what doth she 

there, [and bare? 

With her unmantled neck, and bosom white 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young 
life, [took 

Where on the heart and from the heart wc 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look. 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled 

nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — 
Cain was Eve's. 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food. 
The milk of his own gift: — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 



* The Pantheon had been made a receptacle for the 
busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. 
The flood of light which once fell through the large orb 
above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a 
numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of 
whom have been almost deified by the veneration of 
their countrymen. 

t This and the three next stanzas allude to the storv 
of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the travel- 
ler by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now 
shown at the church of St. Nicholas in Carctre. 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



231 



Great Nature*s Nile, whose deep stream 

rises higher 
Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side 
t)rink, drink and live, old man! Heaven*s 

realm holds no such tide. 

GLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
"Where sparkle distant worlds: Oh, holiest 
nurse ! [miss 

No drop of that clear stream its way shall 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejom the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, [high,* 
Colossal copyist of deformity. 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth. 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How 

smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 
To view the huge design which sprung from 
such a birth ! 



But lo! the dome — the vast and wondrous 

dome,t 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's 

tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have 

survey 'd [pray'd; 

Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that Pie 
Forsook His former city, what could be 
Of earthly structures, in His honor piled. 



♦ The Casde of St. Angelo. 

t This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- 
parative length of this basilica and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter*s, and 
the "Classical Tour through Italy,'* vol, ii. p. 125 et 
seq., chap. iv. 



Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, [aisled, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 
And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies,nor be blasted by His brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the ad- 
vance, [doth rise, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance; [nize — 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmo- 
All musical in its immensities; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines 
where flame [which vies 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though 
their frame [must claim. 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all : but piecemeal thou must 

break. 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays will make. 
That asks the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll [heart 
In mighty graduations, part by part, [dart. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not 



Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is [sense 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe whith would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who coulcl raise 



232 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRhMAGE. 



1818. 



What former time, nor skill, nor thought! 
could plan; j 

The fountain of sublimity displays [man 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of: 
Its golden sands, and learn what great con- 
ceptions can, 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
LaocoOn's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony [Vain 
With an immortal's patience blending: — 
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's 

grasp, [chain 

The old man's clench; the long envenom'd 

Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 

Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on 

gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow 

bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose 

breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above. 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood. 
When each conception was a heavenly 
A ray of immortality — and stood, [guest — 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! 



Methinks he cometh late and tarcies long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suiTer — let that 
pass — [mass, 

His shadow fades away into Destruction's 



And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with 
which 'twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 
But whcTe is he, the I'ilgrim of my song, ' 
The Ijeing wjio upheld it through the past?| 



Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, [all 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms; 

and the cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness: rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract 

the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the 

same : 
It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose 

sweat was gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns ^he 

rending ground. 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the 
i chief [crown'd, 

I wSeems royal still, though with her head dis- 

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields 
no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art 

thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, arl thou dead? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hush'd that pang for ever; with thee 

fled 



i8i8. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



m 



The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd 
to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep 
for thee, [hoard, 

And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to 
Her many griefs for One; for she had pour' d 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
rThe husband of a year! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedd ing garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
The love of millions! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and 
bless'd [seem'd 

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise 
Like star to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a me- 
teor beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange 

fate* [hath flung 

Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and, 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon 

or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother — and now the7'e! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's 

breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair. 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 
opprest [could love thee best. 

The land which loved thee so, that none 



* Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart ; Charles V. a hermit ; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in 
means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and Napoleon, 
" the greatest is behind," lives a prisoner. To these 
sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added of 
names equally i lustrious and unhappy. 



CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills* 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
I The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
I Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
\ The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; 
i And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
I All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the 
i snake. 



And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
**Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending 

star 
Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome; — and where yon 

bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight. 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's 

delight. 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea: 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold [we 
Those waves, we foUov/'d on till the dark 
Euxine roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades ; long years — 
Long, though not very many — since have 
done [some tears 

Their work on both; some suffering and 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 



* The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and from the shades v/hich embosomed the tem- 
y.c of Diana, }i:is pre-ocrved to this d;\y its distinctive ap- 
pellation of The Grove, Nemi is but an evening's ride 
from the comfortajle inn of Albano. 



234 



CHILDE HAROLD'S riLGRIMACE. 



iSiS. 



Ye Elements!— in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such r being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be 
our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes. 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
groan, [known. 

Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'dand un- 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength 

he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray, 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth — there let 

him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 
. mar [falgar. 

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Tra- 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee — [they? 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what arc 

Thy wafers wasted tlnm while they were free, i 



And many a tyrant since: their shores obey 
The stranger, slave or savage; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 

play — [brow — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest 

now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests: in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each 

zone [less, alone. 

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 

And laid my hand upon thy name — as I do here. 

CLXXXV. 

]My task is done — my song hath ceased — my 

Has died into an echo; it is fit [theme 

The spell should break of this protracted 

dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp, and what is writ, is writ — 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 

Which in my spirit dwejt is fluttering, faint, 
and low. 

CLXXXV I. 
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath 
been — [well ! 

A sound which makes us linger; — yet, fare- 
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
Farewell! with/7';// alone may rest the pain, 

If such there were — with^^« the moral of his 



TALES. 

THE GIAOUR:* 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 
1813. 

** One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting." — Moore. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, 

AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

LONDON, May, 1813. BYRON. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The tale which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East 
than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the " olden time," or because the Chris- 
tians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, 
who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her 
lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Amauts were 
beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The 
desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and 
to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the an- 
nals of the faithful. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the clifif,f 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain — 
When shall such hero live again? 

Fair clime! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 



* Giaour — an Infidel. The g is sounded soft, as before 
e in English. 

t A tOTih abov« the rock-, on the promontory, by some 
supposed t!ie sepulchre of Themistocles. 



There mildly dimphng, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the Eastern wave; 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas. 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there? 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale. 
Sultana of the Nightingale,* 

The maid for whom his melody, 

His thousand songs are heard on high. 



* The attachment of the ni^htin;::;ole to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. Ijf I mistake not, the "BuU 
bul of a thousand tales" is oiie of his appellations. 



236 



THE GIAOUR. 



1813. 



Blooms blushing to her lover^s tale: 

His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 

Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 

Far from the winters of the West, 

By every breeze and season blest, 

Returns the sweets by nature given 

In softest incense back to heaven; 

And grateful yields that smiling sky 

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 

And many a summer flower is there, 

And many a shade that love might share, 

And many a grotto meant for rest, 

That holds the pirate for a guest; 

Whose bark in sheltering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 

Till the gay mariner's guitar* 

Is heard, and seen the evening star; 

Then stealing with the muffled oar, 

Far shaded by the rocky shore. 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where Nature loved to trace. 

As if for Gods, a dwelling-place. 

And every grace and charm hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she fix'd, 

There man, enamor'd of distress. 

Should mar it into wilderness. 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the faiiy land, 

But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside. 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign, 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd. 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 

So curst the tyrants that destroy! 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled. 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air — 
The rapture of repose that's there — 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 

* The guitar is the consnnt amnsemont of the Greek 
sailor by i:i -ht: with a src^fiy fair wind, and during a 
calm, it Is i-c.ompanicd lilv ;'ys by the voice, and often 
by dancing. 



And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy* 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
Yes, but for these and these alone. 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
The first, last look by death reveal'dlf 
Such is the aspect of this shore; 
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death. 
That parts not quite with parting breath; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb. 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly 
birth — [ish'd earth! 

Which gleams, but warms no more its cher- 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave: 

Say, is not this Thermopylce? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

O servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear. 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 



* Ay, but to die, to go we know not where. 
To lie in cold obstruction. 

Measure for Measure, Act iii. Sc. i. 
t I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription: but those who have will probably retain a 
painful remembrance of that singular beauty which per- 
vades, with few exceptions, the features of iho. dead, a 
few hours, and but a few hours, after " the spirit is not 
there.'* It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by 
gunshot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
vhatever the nriturd energy of the sufferer's ch ^.racter; 
but in death from a stab, the countenance preserves its 
traits of feeling or ferocity, and tliO mind its bias, to the 
I Ixst. 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR. 



237 



And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame: 
For Freedom's battle once begun. 
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! 
Attest it many a deathless age! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die! 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 
Each step from splendor to disgrace; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell; 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time, 
No theme on which the muse might soar. 
High as thine own in days of yore, 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* 

And callous, save to crime; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
Without even savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke. 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrows I bewail, 
Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
And they who listen may believe. 
Who heard it first had caiKe to grieve. 

Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing. 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 



Of island-pirate or Mainote; 
And fearful for his light caique. 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek: 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil. 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
Till Porte Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an Eastern night. 



Who thundering comes on blackest steed. 
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash and bound for bound; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side. 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
There's none within his rider's breast; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaourl 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface; 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed byfieiy passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye. 
As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight; 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast. 
And long upon my startled ear. 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep. 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; 
He winds around; he hurries by; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along; but ere he pass'd 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
the seraglio and guardian of the womenl who appoints | The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
poUt'^Te^rt ap1,St;!"ntwir'^^^^^^^^^^ Mosque's high lamps are quivering still; 

of Athens. 



" Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of 



I 



J Though too remote for sound to wake 



238 



THE GIAOUR. 



18.3. 



In echoes of the far tophaike,* 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 
To-nig]it, the Bairam feast's begun; 
To-night — but who and what art thou 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow? 
And what are these to thine or thee, 
That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face, 
Soon Hatred settled in its place: 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
\Vhose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised 
And sternly shook his hand on high, 
As doubting to return or fly; 
Impatient of his flight delay'd, 
Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
Down glanced that hand,andgrasp'd his blade; 
That sound had burst his waking dream. 
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; 
Away, av>ay, for life he rides: 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreedf 
Springs to the touch his startled steed; 
The rock is doubled, and the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more; 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd; 
'Twas but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued: 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years: 
What felt he then, at once opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast? 
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date! 
Though in Time's record nearly nought, 
It was Eternity to Thought! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that Conscience must embrace, 



* "Tophaike," musket.— The Bairam is announced by 
the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, 
and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 
ball, proclaim it during the night. 

t Jcrrced, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which 
is darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
It is a favorite exercise of the Alu^^sulmans. 



Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone; 
And did he fly or fall alone? 
W^oe to that hour he came or went! 
The curse of Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb: 
He came, he went, like the Simoom,* 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall; 
The lonely spider's thin grey pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall; 
The bat builds in his Haram bower. 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim. 
With baffled thirst, and famine grim; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed. 
Where the w^eeds and the desolate dust are 
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play, [spread. 
And chase the sultriness of day. 
As springing high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew, 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright. 
To view the wave of watery light. 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
Around the verge^f that cascade; 
And oft upon his mother's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song; 
And softer seem'd each melting tone 
Of Music mingled w^ith its own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
Along the bank at Twilight's close: 
The stream that fiU'd that font is fled — 
The blood that warm'd his heart is shedl 
And here no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
Was woman's wildest funeral wail: 
TJiat quench'd in silence, all is still. 
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill ; 
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
No hand shall close its clasp again. 
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

* The blast of the desert, fatal to everything Irving, 

nnd <;':cn r.lhidcd to in Eastern poetry. 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR, 



^39 



The rudest steps of fellow-man, 

So here the very voice of Grief 

Might wake an Echo like relief — 

At least 'twould say, "All are not gone; 

There lingers Life, though but in one " — 

For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which Solitude might well forbear; 

Within that dome as yet Decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate. 

Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 

For bounty cheers not his delay; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred ** bread and salt."* 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is Desolation's hungry den. [labor, 

The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from 

Since his turban was cleft by thelnfidel's sabre ! \ 

I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan;:j: 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Emir by his garb of green :§ 
" Ho! who art thou?"—" This low salam|| 
Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
** The burthen ye so gently bear 
Seems one that claims your utmost care. 
And doubtless holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait," 

" Thou speakest sooth; thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore; 



* To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, ensures the safety of the guest; even though 
an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 

t I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
are the first duties enjoined by Mohammed; and to 
say truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a panegyric 
on his bounty; the next, on his valor, 

+ The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; and, 
among the wealthier, gilt, or of, gold. 

§ Green is the privileged color of the Prophet's numer- 
ous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith 
(the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the ne- 
cessity of good works ; they are the worst of a very in- 
different brood. 

II " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam !"— *' Peace be 
with you ; be with you peace"— the salutation reserved 
for the faithful: to a Christian, *'Urlarula!"— *'A good 
journey;" or " Saban hiresem, saban serula !" — " Good 
morn, good even;" and sometimes, *' May your end be 
happy," are the usual salutes. 



Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by. 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channell'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done. 
Our course has been right swiftly run. 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow. 
That one of " 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank. 
The calm wave rippled to the bank; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more — 'twas but the beam 
That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew. 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
Known but to Genii of the deep. 
Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect queen of eastern spring,* 
O'er the emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower, 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high. 
With panting heart and tearful eye: 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd. 
Woe waits the insect and the maid; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play and man's caprice: 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought. 
Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
For every touch that woo'd its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
"Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast. 
Ah! where shall either victim rest? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No: gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 



* The blue- winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 



240 



THE GIAOUR, 



i8i^ 



And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 

The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close. 
Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain. — 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;* 
So writhes the mind Remorse has riven. 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

Black Hassan from the Haram flies. 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs. 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys, 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell: 
Strange rumors in our city say 
L' pon that eve she fled away 
When Rhamazan's last sun was set,f 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
' Twas then she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath; 
For she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
WmX. still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave: 



* Alluding to the dubious suicide of the §corpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement ; 
but others have actually brought in the verdict Fclo de 
se. The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy de- 
cision of the question; as, if once fairly established as 
insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as 
long as they think proper, without being martyred for 
the sake of a hypothesis. 

t The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. 



And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well; 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari's trembling light,* 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone, to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well: 
As large, as languishingly dark. 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.-j* 
Yea, Soul, and should our Prophet say 
That form was naught but breathing clay, 
By Allah! I would answer nay; 
Though on Al-Sirat'sif arch I stood. 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
With Paradise within my view. 
And all his Houris beckoning through. 
Oh! who young Leila's glance could read, 
And keep that portion of his creed, 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust?§ 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the immortal shone; 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew j| 
Their bloom in blushes ever new; 
Her hair in hyacinthine flow,^[ 



* Phmgari, the moon. 

t The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendor named 
Schebgerag, " the torch of night;" also *• the cup of the 
sun," &c. In the first edition, " Giamschid" was writ- 
ten as a word of three syllables; so D'Herbelot has it; 
but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and 
writes " Jamshid.'* I have left in the text the orthog- 
raphy of the one, with the pronunciation of the other. 

X Al-Sirat, the bridge of breath, narrower than the 
thread of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge 
of a sword, over which the Mussulmans must skate into 
Paradise, to which it is the only entrance; but this is not 
the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, 
as may be expected, the unskillful and tender of foot 
contrive to tumble, with a " facilis descensus Avemi," 
not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There 
is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 
§ A vulgar error; the Koran allots at least a third of 
Paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the greater 
I number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, 
j and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies 
I to Platonics, they cannot discern "any fitness of things" 
I :n the souls of the other sex, conceivmg them to be su- 
' perseded by the Houris. 

I II An Oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
fairly stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 

TI Hyacinthine, in Arabic " S'.'nbul," as common a 
' thought in the Eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR, 



241 



When left to roll its folds below, 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan!* 

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the waves with wings of pride. 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait; 
Her heart as tender to her mate; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
Alas! that name was not for thee! 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train. 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
\Vith arquebuss and ataghan; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pacha wore, 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with 
Even robbers tremble to behold. [gold, 

'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour! 

The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here many a loitering merchant Greek 
Finds that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



*" Franguestan," Circassia. 



The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile: 
Above, the mountain rears a peak. 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak; 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare. 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there; 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite grey. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd? 

They reach the grove of pine at last: 
** Bismillahi* now the peril's past; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And there we'll prick our steeds amain:'* 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound; 

But three shall never mount again: 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey; 
Then curl'd his very beard with ire,f 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire; 



* Bismillah — " In the name of God ;" the commence- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
prayer and thanksgiving. 

t A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mus- 
sulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a 
diplomatic audience were no less lively with indignation 
than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; 
the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of 
their own accord, and were expected every moment to 
change their color, but at last condescended to subside, 
which, probably, saved more heads than they contained 
hairs. 



242 



THE GIAOUR. 



1 



" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
IVe 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun!* 
In fuller sight, more near and near. 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand? 
*' 'Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now; 
I know him by his pallid brow; 
I know him by the evil eyef 
That aids his envious treachery; 
I know him by his jet-black barb: 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb. 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'Tis he! well met in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour!" 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blasts of winter, rave; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash. 
The lightnings of the v.ater's flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong. 
And fate, and fury drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar. 
And pealing wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
Reverberate along that vale. 
More suited to the shepherd's tale: 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife. 
That neither spares nor speaks for life! 
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
To seize and share the dear caress; 



* " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

t The "evil eye," a common superstition in the 
Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very 
sijig'jlar on those who conceive themselves affected. 



But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant, 
With half the fervor Mate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: 
Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death! 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; 

Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 

Which quivers round that faithless brand; 

His turban far behind him roU'd, 

And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 

His flowing robe by falchion torn. 

And crimson as those clouds of morn 

That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 

The day shall have a stormy end; 

A stain on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore;* 

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 

His back to earth, his face to heaven, 

Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 

Yet lowering on his enemy. 

As if the hour that seal'd his fate 

Surviving left his quenchless hate; 

And o'er him bends that foe, with brow 

As dark as his that bled below. — 

**Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave. 
But his shall be a redder grave; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
He call'd on Alia, but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd and thine accorded there? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go — but go alone." 



The browsing camels' bells are tinkling, 
His Mother look'd from her lattice high- 
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
** 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-bower. 



* The flowered shawls generally worn by persons cW 
rank. 



THE GIAOUR. 



243 



But gazed through the grate of his steepest 

tower: 
" Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat; [gift? 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 
Oh, false reproach! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow. 
And warily the steep descends. 
And now within the valley bends; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight; 
His swarthy visage spake distress. 
But this might be from weariness; 
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 
But these might be from his courser's side: 
He drew the token from his vest — 
Angel of Death! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest! 
His calpac* rent — his caftan red — 
*' Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed: 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: 
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 

A turban carved in coarsest stone, f 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee: 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine. 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of *' Alia Hu!":|: 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand. 
And stranger in his native land,; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 

* The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the 
head-dress ; the shawl is wound around it, and forms the 
turban. 

t The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery 
or in the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently 
pass similar mementoes ; and on inquiry you are in- , 
formed that tliey record some victim of rebellion, plun- , 
der, or revenge. | 

X "AllaHu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's | 
call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of; 
the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has 1 
a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is ] 
solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. I 



But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite. 
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance forever bright; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,* 
And welcome with a kiss the brave! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 

But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe ;f 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' throne ;| 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable. 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,§ 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race: 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims, ere they yet expire. 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all. 
Shall bless thee with ?ifather''s name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 



* The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks: — 
" I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she 
waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries 
aloud, * Come, kiss me, for I love thee.* " 

t Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate and 
preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are 
none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and 
thumped down with a red-hot mace till properly seasoned, 
with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these 
angels is no sinecure; there are but two, and the number 
of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the 
remainder, their hands are always full. Consult Sale's 
Koran. 
\ X Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

§ The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
Southey, in his notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
" Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is, 

Vardoulacha." 1 recollect a whole family being terri- 
fied by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never 
mention the word without horror. I find that " Brou- 
colokas " is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at 
least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the 
Greeks, was after his death animated by the devil. The 
modems, however, use the word I mention. 



244 



THE GIAOUR. 



1813. 



Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; 
Then with unhallowM hand shall tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn, 
But now is borne away by thee. 
Memorial of thine agony! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip* 
Thy gnasfiing tooth and haggard lip; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Ghouls and Afrits rave; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they! 

** How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land: 'tis many a year. 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 

'* 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 
Since first among our freres he came; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer. 
Nor e'er before confession chair. 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone. 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast; 
Vet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Ghristian in his face: 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made. 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine. 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine, 
(ireat largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favor bought; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay. 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea: 



* The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the Up 
with blood, are the never-failing sic^ns of a Vampire. 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
attested. 



Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
I Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff" he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand. 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him. 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl: 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by; 
Though varying, indistinct its hue. 
Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 
For in it lurks that nameless spell. 
Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
A spirit yet unquell'd and high. 
That claims and keeps ascendancy; 
And like the bird w^hose pinions quake, 
! But cannot fly the gazing snake, 
jWill others quail beneath his look, 
I Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
j From him the half-affrighted Friar 
When met alone would fain retire, 
I As if that high and bitter smile 
Transferr'd to others fear and guile: 
Not oft to smile descendeth he, 
And when he doth, 'tis sad to see 
That he but mocks at Misery. 
How that pale lip will curl and quiverl 
Then fix once more as if forever; 
As if his sorrow or disdain 
Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
Well were it so — such ghastly mirth. 
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
But sadder still it were to trace 
What once were feelings in that face; 
Time hath not yet the features fix'd. 
But brighter traits with evil mix'd; 
And there are hues not always faded, 
Which speak a mind not all degraded. 
Even by the crimes through which it waded: 
The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
The close observer can espy 
A noble soul, and lineage high: 
iAlas! though both bestow'd in vain, 
I Which Grief could change, and Guilt could 
jit was no vulgar tenement [stain, 

!To which such lofty gifts were lent. 
And still with little less than dread 
On such the sight is riveted. 
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 
\ Will scarce delay the passer-by; 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR. 



245 



The tower by war or tempest benf, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

** His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle. 

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir, 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire; 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch; 

There will he pause till all is done — 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half-illumined wall 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd; 

For he declines the convent oath. 

And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside; 

And, not from piety, but pride. 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

Lo! — mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky. 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd defiance and despair! 

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by awful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wore: 

By all my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!" 

To love the softest hearts are prone. 

But such can ne'er be all his own; 

Too timid in his woes to share. 

Too meek to meet or brave despair; 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal. 

The rugged metal of the mine 

Must burn before its surface shine. 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same; 

Then, temper'd to thy want, or will, 

'Twill serve thee to defend or kill; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thy fotman bleed; 

But if a dagger's form it bear. 

Let those who shape its edge beware! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 



From these its form and tone are ta'en. 
And what they make it, must remain, 
But break — before it bend again. 

If solitude succeed to grief. 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptile creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay! 
It is as if the desert-bird,* 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind. 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
Unseen to drop by dull decay; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! 

"Father! thy days have pass'd in, peace 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer 

To bid the sins of others cease, 
Thyself without a ciime or care. 
Save transient ills that all must bear. 

Has been thy lot from youth to age; 

And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 

Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd. 

Such as thy penitents unfold. 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and pitying breast. 

My days, though few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of woe; 

Yet still, in hours of love or strife, 

I've 'scaped tlie weariness of life: 

' * The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
i imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood, 



246 



THE GIAOUR. 



1813. 



Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate, 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvaiying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil: 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was and would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit shrunk not to sustam 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave; 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; 
And in the field it had been sweet. 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it, not for honor's boast; 
I smile at laurels won or lost; 
To such let others carve their way. 
For high renown, or hireling pay: 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize — 
The maid I love, the man I hate — 
And I will hunt the steps of fate. 
To save or slay, as these require. 
Through rending steel and rolling fire: 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; 
Then let life go to Him who gave; 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now ? 



** I loved her. Friar! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word; 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose: 
'Twas shed for her who died for me. 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor 'midst my sins such act record : 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed! 



The very name of Nazarene 

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 

Ungrateful fool! since but for brands 

W^ell wielded in some hardy hands. 

And wounds by Galileans given. 

The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 

For him his Houris still might wait 

Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 

I loved her — love will find its way [pi"ey; 

Through paths where wolves would fear to 

And if he dares enough, 'twere hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

wShe died — I dare not tell thee how: 

But look — 'tis written on my brow! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime, 

In characters unworn by time: 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow; 

But true to me, I laid him low: 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; 

And I, alas! too late to save! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave, 

'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly; but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well may'st hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer 
Deep in whose darkly-boding ear* 



* This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the East) fell once 
under my own observation. On my third journey to 
Cape Colonna, early in 1811, as we passed through the 
defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and 
Colonna, I observed Dervish 'lahiri riding rather out of 
the path, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in 
pain. 1 rode up and inquired. *' \Vc are in peril," he 
answered. " What peril ? We are not now in Albania, 
nor in the passes to Ephcsus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
have not courage to be thieves." " True, Affcndi, but 
nevertheless the shot is ringing iu my ears." *' The shot I 
not a tophaike has been fired this morning." " I hear it, 
notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as plainly as I hear your 
voice." •' Psha !" "As you please, Affendi ; if it is 
written, so will it be," 1 left this quick-eared predestina- 
rian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, 
whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, re- 
mained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a 
variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled 
the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, 
Arnaut, Turkibh, Italian, and English were all exercised, 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR, 



247 



The death-shot peal'd of murder near 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away: 
Though pierced like pard by hunter's steel. 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of the wounded mind; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face! 
The late repentance of that hour. 
When Penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave. 
And will not soothe, and cannot save, 

" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love can scarce deserve the name; 
But mine was like the lava flood, 

That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain. 
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 



in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman, 
While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, 
Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he 
was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he 
had become a ''Palaocastro'" man? "No," said he, 
"but these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" 
and added other remarks which at least evinced his own 
belief in his troublesome faculty oi /ore-hearing. On 
our return to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner 
set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the 
Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking 
place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 11. I was 
at some pains to question the man, and he described the 
dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so 
accurately that, with other circumstances, we could not 
doubt of his being in " villainous company," and our- 
selves in a bad neighborhood. Dervish became a sooth- 
sayer for life, and I dare say he is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment of the Amauts of Berat, and his native mountains. 
I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In 
March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaut 
came (I believe the fiftieth on the same errand) to offer 
himself as an attendant, which was declined. " Well, 
Affendi," quoth he, "may you live! — you would have 
found me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to- 
morrow; in the winter I return; perhaps you will then 
receive me." Dervish, who was present, remarked, as 
a thing of course, and of no consequence, " In the mean 
time he will join the Klephtes" (robbers), which was 
true to the letter. If not cut off, they come down in the 
winter and pass it unmolested in some town, where they 
are often as well known as their exploits. 



And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt and feel, 
Betoken love — that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first, I have possess'd. 
And come what may, / have been bless'd. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd. 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve — but not, my holy guide! 
For him who dies, but her who died: 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah! had she but an earthly grave. 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight; 
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
The morning-star of Memory ! 

" Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But Heaven itself descends in love; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought; 
A Ray of Him who forni'd the whole; 
A Glory circling round the soul! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt, 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! 
She was my life's unerring light: [night? 

That quench'd, what beam shall break my 
Oh! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope. 

No more with sorrow meekly cope; 
In frenzy then their fate accuse; 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe? 
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow: 
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear: 
I read abhorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear! 
'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 



!i \ 



II 



248 



THE GIAOUR. 



1813. 



With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove. 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird tliat sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range. 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys; 
I envy not his varied joys. 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila! each thought was only thine! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee. 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me: 
P'or worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth. 
This bed of death — attest my truth! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart! 

'' And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 

But not the breath of human life; 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
Shuddering, I shrank from Nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before. 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence; 
Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done, canst thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief.* 
My soul's estate in secret guess: 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
Then will I sue thee to forgive; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 



* The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have 
had so little efTect upon the patient, that it could have no 
hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
the interruptions and uneasiness of the patient), and was 
delivered in the usual tone of all orthodox preachers. 



From forest-cave her shrieking young, 

And calm the lonely lioness: 

But soothe not — mock not 7ny distress! 

**In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — ah! have I now? — a friend! 

To him this pledge I charge thee send, 
Memorial of a youthful vow: 

I would remind him of my end: 
Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume. 

And warn — I reck'd not what— the while: 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely marked before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass. 

And he will start to hear their truth. 

And wish his words had not been -sooth: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
Through many a busy bitter scene 
Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn awayj 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask him not to mourn. 
Such cold request might sound like scorn; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier? 
But bear this ring, his own of old. 
And tell him — what thou dost behold! 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 

Tell me no more of fancy's gleam; 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream: 
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd and wish'd to weep, 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now; 
I wish'd but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear: 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer: 
I would not, if I might, be blest; 



i8i3. 



THE GIAOUR. 



249 



I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 

I saw her; yes, she lived again; 

And shining in her white symar,* 

As through yon pale grey cloud the star 

Which now I gaze on, as on her. 

Who look'd, and looks far lovelier; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark; 

To-morrow's night shall be more dark; 

And I, before its rays appear, 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father I for my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

I saw her, friar! and I rose 

Forgetful of our former v/oes; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart. 

And clasp her to my desperate heart; 

I clasp— what is it that 1 clasp? 

No breathing form within my grasp. 

No heart that beats reply to mine — 

Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 

And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 

Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 

I care not; so my arms enfold 

The all they ever wish'd to hold. 

Alas! around the shadow prest, 

They shrink upon my lonely breast; 

Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands. 

And beckons with beseeching hands! 

With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 

I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 

But he is dead! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 

From earth; why then art thou awake? 

They told me wild waves roll'd above 

Tfre face I view, the form I love ! 

They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! — 

I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: 

If true, and from thine ocean-cave 

Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave. 

Oh, pass thy dewy fingers o'er 

This brow, that then will burn no more; 

Or place them on my hopeless heart: 

But, shape or shade! whate'er thou art. 



In mercy ne'er again depart! 

Or farther with thee bear my soul 

Than winds can waft or waters roll! 



** Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead; 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither name nor emblem spread. 
By prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day: 
This broken tale was all he knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew.* 



* ** Symar," a shroud. 



* The circumstance to which the above story relates, 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago, 
the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his 
son's supposed infidelity: he asked with whom, and she 
had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsom- 
est women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in 
sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night ! One of 
the guards who was present informed me, that not one 
of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of 
terror, at so sudden a ""wrench from all we know, from 
all we love/' The fate of Phrosine, the fairest of this 
sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaut 
ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Vene- 
tian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard 
it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story- 
tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their 
narratives. The additions and interpolations by the 
translator will be easily distinguished from the rest, by 
the want of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that my 
memory has retained so few fragments of the original. 
For the contents of some of the notes, I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, 
and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the 
Caliph Vathek. I do not know from what source the 
author of that singular volume may have drawn his ma- 
terials : some of his incidents are to be found in the 
Bibliotheque Orientale ; but for the correctness of cos- 
tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, 
it far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited the East 
will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a 
translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow 
before it ; his " Happy Valley" will not bear a compari- 
son with the " Hall of Eblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 



A TURKISH TALE. 



' Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.' 



-Burns. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND 

SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 
1813. 

CANTO THE FIRST. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 

clime? [turtle, 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ! ; 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, . j 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 

ever shine; [perfume, | 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with ' 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ;* 1 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, , 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of 

the sky. 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 

twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the 

Sun — [done?t 

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell. 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 

which they tell. 

* *• Giil," the rose. 
t '* Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue." 

Young's Revenge. 



Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest, 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
Old Giaffir sate in his divan: 

Deep thought was in his aged eye; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 

** Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train 
disappear'd — 
** Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 

With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
** Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!) 
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower; 
Her fate is fix'd this very hour: 
Yet not to her repeat my thought; 
By me alone be duty taught!" 

** Pacha! to hear is to obey.** 

No more must slave to despot say — 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



251 



Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : I 

For son of Moslem must expire, i 

Ere dare to sit before his sire! i 

I 
<« Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide i 
My sister, or her sable guide, i 

Know — for the fault, if fault there be, ! 

Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — j 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high, 
Were irksome; for whate'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude : 

I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
And, as thou knowest that for me 
Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 

Before the guardian slaves awoke, 

\^e to the cypress groves had flown, 1 

And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There lingered we, beguiled too long 

With Mej noun's tale, or Sadi's song;* 
Till I, who heard the deep tambourf 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew: 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that sacred bower 
But those who watch the w^omen's tower." 



'■*■ Son of a slave!" — the Pacha said — 
<*From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow. 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire. 
Would lend thee something of its fire! 
Thon, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; 
Nay, tamely view old Stamboul's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 



* Mej noun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

t " Tambour,'* Turkish drum, which sounds at sun- 
rise, noon, and twilight. 



Nor strike one stroke for life and death 

Against the curs of Nazareth! 

Go — let thy less than woman's hand 

Assume the distaff — not the brand. 

But Haroun! to my daughter speed! 

And hark — of thine own head take heed— ^ 

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 

Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string!" 

V. 

No sound from Selim's lips was heard. 

At least that met old Giaflir's ear; 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

*' Son of a slave!" — reproach'd with fear! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
** Son of a slave! — and who my sire?" 
Thus held his thoughts their dark career; 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaflir gazed upon his son. 

And started; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done* 
He saw rebellion there begun: 

** Come hither, boy — what! no reply? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do: 
But if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed; 

That eye return'd him glance for glance. 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaflir's quail'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell, 
*< Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy; 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth. 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab to my sight,* 
Or Christian crouching in the fight; 
But hark! — I hear Zuleika's voice; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: 
She is the off'spring of my choice: 



* The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ment a hundredfold) even more than they hate the 
Christians. 



252 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope and nought to fear — 
My Peri! ever welcome here! 
Sweet as the desert's fountain wave, 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou: 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 

VI. 

Fair as the first that fell of womankind, 

When on the dread yet lovely serpent smil- 
ing, [mind — 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her 

But once beguiled — and evermore beguiling : 
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendant vision 

To Sorrow's phantom -peopled slumber 

given, [Elysian, 

When heart meets heart again in dreams 

And paints the lost on Earth revived in 
Soft as the memory of buried love; [Heaven: 
Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts 

above. 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might, the majesty of Loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone — 
The light of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,* 
The heart whose softness harmonized the 

whole; 
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! 
Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast; 



1813. 



* This expression has met with objections. I will not 
refer to ''Him who hath not Music in his soul," but 
merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
the features of the woman whom he believes the most 
beautiful; and, if he then does not comprehend fully what 
IS feebly expressed in this line, I shall feel sorry for us both. 
For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the 
first female writer of this, perhaps of any age, on the 
analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that 
analogy) between " painting and music," see vol. iii. cap 
10, De l'Allemagne. And is not this connection still 
stronger with the original than the copy? with the color- 
ing of Nature than of Art? After all, this is rather to be 
felt than described; still 1 think there are some who will 
understand it, at least they would have done had they 
beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony sug- 
gested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from im- 
agmation, but memory, that mirror which Affliction 
dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the frag- 
ments, only beholds the reflection multiplied, 



At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child, caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt: 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feci; 
Affection chain'd her to that heart; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

'* Zuleika! child of gentleness! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress. 
In losing what I love so well. 
To bid thee with another dwell: 
Another! and a braver man 
W^as never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood; 

But yet the line of Carasman,* 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: 
His years need scarce a thought employ: 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower: 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait.f 
And now thou knowest thy father's will- 
All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
The way to love, thy lord may show." 

VIII. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head; 

And if her eye was filled with tears, 
That stifled feeling dare not shed. 
And changed her cheek from pale to red 

And red to pale, as through her ears 



* Carasman Oglu, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the prin- 
cipal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnes-i. 
Those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land c 
condition of service, are called Timariots; they serve . 
Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring a 
certain number into the field, generally cavalry. 
^ t When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of th( 
order for his death, is strangled instead, and sometime- 
five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by 
command of the refractory patient. If, on the contrary' 
he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's re- 
spectable signature, and is bowstrung with great com- 
placency. In 1810, several of *' tiiesc presents" were 
exhibited in the niche of the Seniglio gate; among 
others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdad, a brave young 
man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resistance. 




** Her graceful arms in tneekness bending 
Across her gently budding breast.'' 



The Eride of Abvdos, c:. I., St. vL 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF AS YD OS. 



253 



Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less! 

Whate'er it was the sire forgot; 

Or if remember'd, mark'd it not; [steed,* 

Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,f 
And mounting featly for the mead, 
With Maugrabeef and Mamaluke, 
His way amid his Delis took,§ 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 

IX. 
His head was leant upon his hand. 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter. 
Careering cleave the folded felt|| 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs^ wild and loud — 

He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter! 

X. 

No word from Selim's bosom broke; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke; 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same: 

* Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks ■ 
hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have I 
no bells. | 

t " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of which the amber I 
mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the 
leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of 
the wealthier orders. 

X " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenariesc 

§ " Delis," bravoes who form the forlorn hope of the 
cavalry, and always begin the action. 

il A twisted fold oifelt is used for scimitar practice by 
the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through 
it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used 
for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt 
javelins, animated and graceful. 

^ " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the *'Leilies," as the Span- 
ish poets call them ; the second is Ollah— a cry of which 
the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, 
particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but 
mostly m battle. Their animation in the field, and 
gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and com- 
boloios, form an amusing contrast. 



Pier heart confess'd a gentler flame: 
But yet that heart, alarm'd, or weak. 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay? 
** How strange he thus should turn away! 
Not thus we e'er before have met; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd: 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume,* 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof and marble floor :f 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
** What, sullen yet? It must not be — 
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!"^ 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
" He loved them once; may touch them yet, 

If offered by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet: 
** This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul bears;}: 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

*^ What! not receive my foolish flower? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest: 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest. 



* " Atar-giil," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

t The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great 
houses, with one eternal and highly-colored view of 
Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble 
contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimitars, &c., 
are in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 

X It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
" Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's 
remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the sub- 
ject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
though a little inclined to the " errare mallem" Slc, i/ 
Mr. Fox was mistaken. 



254 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



1813. 



Since words of mine and songs must fail 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn: 
Too well I know he loves thee not; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot? 
Ah, deem I right? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carisman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine: 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine — 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow — 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah! were I sever'd from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide? 
Years have not seen. Time shall not see. 
The hour that tears my soul from thee: 
Even Azrael,* from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom forever 

Our hearts to undivided dust!" 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt: 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream, late conceal'd. 

By the fringe of its willows, 
W^hen it rushes revealed 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd: 
** Now thou art mine, forever mine. 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done, 
That vow hath saved more heads than one; 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderness; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 



♦ " Azrael," the angel of death. 



For all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar.* 

This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 

Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 

And Giafiir almost call'd me coward! 

Now I have motive to be brave; 

The son of his neglected slave — 

Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave — 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, indeed! — yet thanks to thee, 

Perghance I am, at least shall be: 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaftir thy reluctant hand; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul. 

Holds not a Musselim's control :-(• 

Was he not bred in Egripo?}: 

A viler race let Israel show! 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey; 

I've partisans for peril's day: 

Think not I am what I appear; 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 

XIII. 

** Think not thou art what thou appearest? 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night, I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny: 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
Like this — and this — no more than this; 
For, Allah! sure thy lips are flame; 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own have nearly caught the same. 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth. 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
And lighten half thy poverty: 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 

* The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See 
D'Herbelot, article Istakar. 

t "Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after a 
Pacha : a Waywode is the third ; and then come the 
"Agas." 

X " Egripo " — the Negropont. According to the pro- 
verb, the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and 
the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 
races. 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



25^ 



For that I could not live to try; 

To these alone my thoughts aspire: 

More can I do? or thou require? 

But, wSelim, thou must answer why 

We need so much of mystery? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 

But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well; 

Yet what thou mean'st by * arms ' and 

Beyond my weaker sense extends, ['friends,' 

I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower. 

The partner of her infancy? 
These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth; my pride, and thine till now? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes. 
Our law, our creed, our God denies; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine: 
No! happier made by that decree. 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld: 
This wherefore should I not reveal? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah! forbid that e'er he ought! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while lurking here; 



Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar,* 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why? 



** Zuleika! — to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet; 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
Unto thy cell will Selim come: 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before: 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me! 
Thow know'st I hold a Haram key," 

*« Fear thee, my Selim! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thou; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
I am not, love! what I appear." 



R^ffi 



* " Tchocadar," one of the attendants who precedes a 
man of authority. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave. 

As on that night of stormy water. 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save. 
The young, the beautiful, the brave. 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high. 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 



And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home; 

And clouds aloft and tides below. 

With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 

He could not see, he would not hear. 

Or sound or sign foreboding fear; 

His eye but saw the light of love, 

The only star it hail'd above; 

His ear but rang with Hero's song, 

** Ye waves, divide not lovers long!" — 



256 



THE BRIDE OE A B YD OS. 



1813. 



That tale is old, but love anew 

May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

II. 
The winds are high, and Helle's tide 

Rolls darkly heaving to the main; 
And Night's descending shadows hide 

The field with blood bedew'd in vain. 
The desert of old Priam's pride; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle. 

III. 
Oh! yet — for there my steps have been; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore. 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn. 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own *' broad Hellespont" still 
dashes,* 
Be long my lot! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream. 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme; 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow; 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round, f 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 



* The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Hel- 
lespont," or the "boundless Hellespont," whether it' 
means one or the other, or what it means at all, has been j 
beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it ! 
disputed on the spol ; and not foreseeing a speedy con- ! 
elusion to the controversy, amused myself with swim- 
ming across it in the meantime, and probably may again, ' 
before the point is settled. Indeed, the question as to ; 
the truth of " the tale of Troy divine * still continues, 
much of it resting upon the talismanic word anetpoq. '• 
Probably Homer had the same notion of distance that a 
coquette has of time ; and when he talks of boundless, 
means half a mile ; as the latter, by a like fi<ure, when ; 
she says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. - 

t Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar I 
with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 1 
calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned 
a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Patroclan 
games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of 
iEsietes and Antilochus: the first is in the centre of the 
plain. 



The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone! 

V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes, there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran :* 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, f 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
Could smooth this life, and win the next: 
And by her comboloio lies| 
A Koran of illumined dyes; 
And many a bright embiazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume; 
All that can eye or sense delight 
Are gather'd in that gorgeous room; 
But yet it haih an air of gloom. 

She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 

What does she hence, and on so rude a night? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 

To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
As heaven itself to Selim dear. 

With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

* When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slight, but not disagreeable. 

t The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed 
in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the 
East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chapter 
of the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, 
and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 

t " Comboloio," a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adomea and 
illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter ig- 
norance : but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- 
complished, though not actually qualified for a Christian 
coterie. Perhaps some of our own ♦* l>lues " might not 
be the worse for blenching. 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



257 



And startino; oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat. 

The maid pursued her silent guide; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach her tender lips to chide? 

VII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art. 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart; 
Aria oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be: 
Where woman's parted soul shall go, 
Her Prophet had disdain'd to show; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, coidd he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
Without her, most beloved in this! 
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well? 

vm. 
Since last she visited the spot, 
Some change seem'd wrought within the grot ; 
It might be only that the night 
Disguised things seen by better light: 
The brazen lamp but dimly threw 
A ray of no celestial hue; 
But in a nook within the cell 
Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
There arms were piled, not such as wield 
The turban'd Delis in the field; 
But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
And one was red — perchance with guilt! 
Ah! how without can blood be spilt? 
A cup, too, on the board was set 
That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
What may this mean? She turn'd to see 
Her Selim — ** Oh! can this be he!" 



His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore. 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore; 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote; 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 



Clung like a cuirass to his breast; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and 

bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.* 

X. 

" I said I was not what I seem'd: 

And now thou seestmy words were true: 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
But first — oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika! I am not thy brother!" 

XI. 
" Oh! not my brother! yet unsay — 

God! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth? 
Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be, 

Than live thus nothing now to thee! 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; 
And I, alas! am Giaffir's child. 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My life, oh, bid me be thy slave!" 

XII. 

" My slave, Zuleika! — nay, I'm thine: 
But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be linked with mine; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 



ifi 



* " Galiongee," or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish 
sailor: the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. 
Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Capitan 
Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of i>tcog. 
Their legs, however, are generally naked. ^ The buskms 
described in the text as sheathed behind with siiver are 
those cf an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had 
quitted the profession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the 
Morea: they were plated in scales one over the other, 
like the back of an armadillo. 



ii 



258 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



1813. 



And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran verse display'd* 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change; but my Zuleika, know 
That tie is widen'd, not divided. 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Gialtir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared at least my infancy. 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of. a Cain;-[- 
He watched me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take. 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

'* How first their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, wall disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's rebel hordes attest % 



* The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but 
more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. 
Amongst those in my possession is one with a blade of 
singular construction; it is very broad, and the edge 
notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, 
or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who 
sold it what possible use such a figure could add. He 
said, xa Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussul- 
majis had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
wound, and liked it because it was piu/eroce. I did 
not much admire the reason, but bought it for its 
peculiarity. 

+ It is to be observed that every allusion to any thing 
or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark or 
Cain, IS equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: 
indeed, the former profess to be much better acquamted 
with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than 
is warranted by our own sacred writ; and not content 
with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. 
bol«mon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses 
a prophetinferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika 
is the Persian name of Potijjhar's wife; and her amour 
with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their 
language. It Ls therefore no violation of costume to put 
the names of Cnin and Noah mto the mouth of a Moslem. 

X Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin; who, for the 
)ast years of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at 
<lcfiaQC«. 



How little love they bore such guest: 
His death is all I need relate, ^ 

The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; \ 

And how my birth disclosed to me^ [free. '' 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me 

XIV, 
** When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life. 
In Widdin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state; 
Nor last, nor least in high command, 
Each brother led a separate band; 
They gave their horse-tails to the wind,* 

And mustering in Sophia's plain * 
Their tents were pitch'd, their posts assign'd : 

To one, alas, assign'd in vain! 
What need of words? the deadly bowl. 

By Giafiir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup; 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore; 
He drank one draught, nor needed morelf 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

**The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalic was gain'd: — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors w^ere obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd : 
'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Wouldst question whence? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow! — 
Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 



* "Horse-tail," the standard ofa Pacha. 

t Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali 
in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I 
was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, 
some years after the event had taken place at a bath in 
Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in a cup 
of coffee, which is presented before the sherbet by the 
bath-keeper, after dressing. 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



259 



Preserved me thus — but not in peace; 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes; 

Not all who break his bread are true: 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours, were few: 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew, 

This tale whose close is almost nigh; 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die: 
But what could single slavery do? 
Avenge his lord? alas! too late; 
Or save his son from such a fate? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd. 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 
To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me; 
Thus GiafBr's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side. 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

W^ith none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals. 
And this and more to me reveals: 
Such still to guilt just Allah sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends! 



** All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 

But harsher still my tale must be: 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds. 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see. 
Yet it is one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear: this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale: 
Those arms thou seest my band have 

brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote; 
This cup, too, for the rugged knaves 

Isfill'd — once quaff'd, they ne'er repine; 



Our Prophet might forgive the slaves; 
They're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 

** What could I be? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wish to roam; 

And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft — oh, Mahomet, how oft! — 

In full Divan the despot scoff d. 

As if my weak, unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand: 

He ever went to war alone. 

And pent me here untried, unknown; 

To Haroun's care with women left. 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had checr'd — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke. 
His captive, though with dread, resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke. 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's" charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; 
The W^orld, — nay Heaven itself, was mine! 

XIX. 
** The shallop of a ti-usty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all:* 

But when and where I join'd the crew, 
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood. 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood; 
And every creed, and every race. 
With them hath found — may find a place: 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chiefs command; 



i|i 



!! 



* The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 



26o 



THE BRIDE OF ABVDOS. 



1813. 



A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my o\n n intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
lUit chieiiy to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank— 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 

The last of Lambro's patriots there* 

Anticipated freedom share; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate.f 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which men ne'er knew; 
I have a love for freedom too. 

Ay! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam,:]: 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home!§ 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me: 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail. 
Across the desert, or before the gale, [prow! 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my 
But ])e the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika! share and bless my bark; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark: 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! [wall 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days, [praise: 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears, 
wShall sound each tone thy long-loved voice 

endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 



* Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
1789-90 for the independence of his country. Aban- 
doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said 
to be still alive* at St. Petersburg. He and Riga are 
the two most celebrated of the Greek Revolutionists. 

t " Rayahs," all who pay the capitation tax, called 
the " Haratch." 

% 1 his first of voyages is one of the few with which 
the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

§ The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and 
Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any book of 
Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to 
itself, cannot be denied. A young French renegado con- 
fessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself 
alone, galloping in the desert, without a sen.sation ap- 
proaching to rapture, which was indescribable. 



* In 1813. [Edit.] 



Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour.* [hand, 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy com- 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, [mand! 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils — but one only love! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still : 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite; 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide : 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests 

cease! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace! 
I like the rest must use my skill or strength. 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length: 
Power sways but by division — her resource 
The best alternative of fraud or force! 
Ours be the last; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home: [heart 
There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part! 
And woman, more than man, when death or 

woe, 
Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 
Away suspicion! — 7iot Zuleika's name! 
But life is hazard at the best; and here 
No more remains to win and much to fear. 
Yes, fear! the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail: 
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath 

charms; 
Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms! 
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck; 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be, 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art: 
There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 

* " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mus- 
sulman paradise. 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 



261 



Here moments menace — there are years of 
wreck! [shape! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close; 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes : 

Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine? 
XXI. 
"His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return'd in time my guard to save; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while: 
And since, though parted from my band 
Too seldom now I leave the land. 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain: 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, — 
Perchance his life who gave thee thine, — 
With me this hour away — away! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
W^ouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head!" 

XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

\Vhen, her last hope forever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

W^as but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch! 

Another — and another — and another — 

'* Oh! fly — no more — yet now my more than 

brother!" 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel; 
And last of all, his sabre waving, 
Stern Giaflir in his fury raving: 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh! niuiit that grot be Selim's grave? 



Dauntless he stood — " 'Tis come — soon 
One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last: [past — 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash: 

No matter — yet one efl"ort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye! — 

" They hear me not, or if they ply 

Their oars, 'tis but to see me die; 

That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar. 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war! 

Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire; 
Yet stay within — here linger safe. 
At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 

Fear'st thou for him? — may I expire 

If in this strife I seek thy sire! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd; 
No — though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No — as each crest save his may feel!" 

XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand. 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk: 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes; 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength : 

Oh! are they yet in time to save? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land! 
They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water! 



Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel. 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset. 
To where the strand and billows met: 
There as his last step left the land — 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand— 
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look 
For her his eye but sought in vain? 



I 

I 



262 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS, 



1813. 



Tliat pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain! 
His back was to the dashing spray; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay. 
When at the instant hiss'd the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choked the tone! 

XXVI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away : 

Few trophies of the fight are there: 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand; 
Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote! 
*Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
fhe wave yet ripples o'er in vain: 

But where is he who wore? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigseum's steep. 

And cast on Lemnos' shore: 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow. 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; ' 
That hand, whose motion is not life, \ 

Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 1 

Flung by the tossing tide on high, I 

Then levell'd with the wave — \ 

What recks it, though that corse shall lie 1 

Within a living grave? I 

The bird that tears that prostrate form ' 

Hath only robb'd the meaner worm; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, j 

And mourn'd above his turban -stone,* 



only. 



* A turban is carved in stone above the graves of 7nen 



That heart had burst — that eye was closed — 
Yea — closed before his own ! 

XXVII. 
By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale. 
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race. 

Thy destined lord is come too late: 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear?* 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate. 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait. 
Sighs in the hall and shrieks upon the gale. 

Tell him thy tale! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 

Thy heart grew chill: [all — 

He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine 

And that last thought on him thou couldst 

Sufficed to kill: [not save 

Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! 

Ah, happy! but of life to lose the worst! 

That grief — though deep — though fatal — was 

thy first! 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, re- 
morse! [lies! 
And oh ! that pang where more than madness 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night. 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the 
light, [heart! 
That winds around and tears the quivering 
Ah, wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth 

spread; 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim — bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy Daughter's dead! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's 
stream. [hast shed! 

What quench'd its ray? — the blood that thou 
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair 
*< Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — 
'* Where ?"t 

* The death-song of the Turkish women. The " silent 
slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in picblic 

t " I came to the place of my birth, and cried, ' The 



i8i3. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



263 



XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms 

And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 
May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again: 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
A.nd waters with celestial tears; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower. 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour. 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower; 
Nor droops, though Spring refuse her shower. 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote: 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note! 
It were the Bulbul; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve. 

As if they loved in vain! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed. 



fiiends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo an- 
swered, * Wher-e are they?' " — ^'ro7n a n Arabic MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the text 
is taken) must be already familiar to every reader — it is 
given in the first annotation, p. 67, of Tke Pleasures of 
Memory: a poem so well known as to render a refer- 
ence almost superfluous, but to whose pages all will be 
delighted to recur. 



'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread. 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake. 

He sings so wild and well! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high, 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe, 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive. 

Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its sound 

Into Zuleika's name.* 
'Tis from her cypress summit heard. 
That melts in air the liquid word; 
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell. 
Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell, 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave; 
And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head: 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'Tis named the ** Pirate-phantom's pillow!** 
W^here first it lay, that mourning flower 
Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; 
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's talc. 



* "And airy tongues that syllable men's names."— 
Milton. For a belief that the souls o. the dead inhabit 
the form of birds, we need not travel to the Eiast. Lord 
Lyttelton's ghost story, thebelief of the Duchess of Ken- 
dal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of 
a raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other 
instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most 
singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believ- 
ing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, 
literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages 
full of the kmd ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress 
in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her 
harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letiers, 




THE CORSAIR. 

1814. 

— *' I suoi peiisieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

Tasso, Gerusalenime Liberata, Canto x. 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

My Dear Moore, 

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
for some years ; and I own that 1 feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my 
pages with a name consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one whose only regret, since our first acquaintrJice, 
has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship to the 
voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you that I have never forgotten the gratification derived 
from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows yoi to 
atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are enga.f ed 
in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East ; none can do those scenes so much justce. 
The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her 
daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was nota^^are 
how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; 
but wildness, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of Oriental descent, to which you have 
already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — Sdf. 
I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but,br 
some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award of "gods, men, nor columns." In the 
present composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but perhaps the best adapted measure to our lan- 
guage, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified 
for narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart. Scott alone, of the present genera- 
tion, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius. In blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heioic 
couplet is not the most popular measure, certainly ; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that 
versification in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my 
present, and will be of ray future regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and am.iable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticized, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so. If I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of " drawing from self, the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavorable; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no par- 
ticular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; but 
I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, 
when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow] in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all par- 
ticipation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than " The 
Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit Chiide Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his 
identity, those who like it must give him whatever alias they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me 
here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

Most truly and aflfectionately. 

His obedient servant, 

January 2, 1814, BYRON. 

CANTO THE FIRST. 

" nessun maggior dolore, 

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria, ." — Dante. 

I, .Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foarn^ 

*' O'ER the glad waters of the dark-blue sea,* Survey our empire, and behold our home! 
Our thoughts as boundle.ss,and our souls a.s free, ! These are our realms, no limits to their sway— 

. _ Our fla<^ the sceptre all who meet obey. 

* Th': timcin this poc^n m ly se-ia loo short fur th. Ours the wild lilc in lunuill .slill to range 
occurrences, but the whole 01 the .'Eecan i>!csrtre withir. 1 ' . 1 ^ . 1 • • \ 

a few hour.\.ailofthcco..t;.uMU...ndther.:'^^^^^^^ ^^^'^ ^^^x^^\, and joy in every change. 

kind enough to take the luinJ ns 1 have ..fien found it. Oh, who can tell? not thoU, luxurious slave 1 



iSi4' 



THE CORSAIR. 



265 



"Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
wave: I With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise; 

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! JTell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
please — jNo matter where — their chief s allotment this; 

Oh, who can tell,save he whose heart hath tried, Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,; But who that Chief? his name on every shore 

The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening | Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no 
play, [way?! niore. 

That thrills the wanderer of that trackless • With these he mingles not but to command; 

Thst for itself can woo the approaching fight, t Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

And turn what some deem danger to delight; ^ Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

That seeks what cravens shun with more than i But they forgive his silence for success. 



Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
■That goblet passes him untasted still — 
And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too; 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest 

roots. 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
With ail a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense. 
His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
" Steer to that shore!" — they sail. << Do this!" 

— 'tis done! 
** Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 
" A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to Hope ! 
Her nation — flag- — how speaks the telescope? 
No prize, alas! but yet a welcome sail: 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze! — she anchors ere the 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay [dark. 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the 

spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the 
I wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 

IV. 



zeal. 
And where the feebler faint can only feel — 
Feel —-to the rising bosom's inmost core. 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
No dread of death if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose: 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it but disease or strife? 
Let him who crawls enamor'd of decay, 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away: 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied 

head; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes 

control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 
And they who loathed his life may gild his 

grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey. 
And cry. Remembrance saddening o'er each 

brow. 
How had the brave who fell exulted noiv !'' 

II. 
Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while; 
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks s 

along. 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand. 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the | 

brand — | Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings; 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign, |The sails are furl'd; and anchoring, round she 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine;' swings: 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, ! And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

While others straggling muse along the shore; Her bon.t descending from the latticed stern. 
For the wild biid the busy springes set, 'fis umnn'd — the oars keep concert to th« 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping n^t; : strand. 



266 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout! — the friendly 

speech! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity! 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the 

crowd; 
The hum of voices, and tne laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each 

dear word: 
** Oh! are they safe? we ask not of success; 
But shall we see them? willtheir accents bless? 
From where the battle roars, the billows chafe, 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise. 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes!" 

VI. 

** Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — 

short; 
Vet thus sincere 'tis cheering, though so brief; 
But, Juan! instant guide us to our chief: 
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to 

learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay. 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver 

spring, [burst, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; 
From crag to cliff they mount. — Near yonder 

cave. 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand? 
'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here, as wont — alone; 
On — Juan! — on — and make our purpose 

known. [greet 

The bark he views — and tell him we would 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: 
We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his 

mood, 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent: 
He spake not, but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
"These letters. Chief, are from the Greek — 
the spy, 



Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 
Much that" — ** Peace, peace!" — he cuts their 

prating short. [each 

Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
They watch his glance with many a stealing 

look. 
To gather how that eye the tidings took; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — *'My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo?" 

I ** In the anchor'd bark." 

<* There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

** To-night, Lord Conrad?" 

** Ay! at set of sun: 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armorer with speed dispose; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes; 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste: 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides; 
And who dare question aught that he decides? 
That man of loneliness and mystery. 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh : 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? [bind? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can 
The power of Thought — the magic of the 

Mind! [skill, 

Link'd with success, assumed and kept with 
That moulds another's weakness to its will; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these 

unknown, [own. 

Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his 
Such hath it been — shall be; beneath the sun 
The many still must labor for the one! 
'Tis nature's doom— but let the wretch who toils. 
Accuse not, hate not hivi who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light tlie l)alance of his humbler pains! 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR, 



267 



IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, [fire; 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of 
Robust, but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men : 
They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek,his forehead high and pale 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil; 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals [ceals. 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce con- 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his gen 
eral mien, [seen; 

Still seems there something he w^ould not have 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye; 
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would 
seek [cheek, 

To probe his heart and watch his changing 
At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, [day. 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed fare- 
well !* 



* That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coinci- 
dences which I have met with since writing " The Cor- 
sair." 

" Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit 
dans un silence mena9ant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a saprofonde indigna- 
tion. De toutes partes cependant les soldats ct les peu- 
ples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si 
puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes partes. 
Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille ; mais 
tout I'aspect de sa personne, tous ses movemens, indi- 

quoient un soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son dcporte-l t "j jj 4.1, u ^ u ~ -^ i. i--j 

ment superbe— et par son seul egard. il faisoit trembler, :^,"^ SCorn d the best, as hypocrites who hid 
les plus hardis." — v.9zj;«^«^z, tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, " Glzericus (Genseric, King of the Vandals, 
the conqueror of both Carthage and Rome), statura me- 



X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit 

wrought ! 
Love shows all changes : Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile : 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions, and to judge their mien, 
He who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear; 
Then — with each feature working from the 

heart, [part; 

With feelings loosed to strengthen — not de- 
That rise, convulse, contend — that freeze or 

glow. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow; 
Then, Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not. 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot! 
Mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free! 



Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument: 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had 

driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's 

school. 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe. 
He curs'd those virtues as the cause of ill. 
And not the traitors who betray'd him still; 
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Fear'd, shunn'd, belied, ere youth had lost 

her force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call. 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain, but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; 



diocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, ser- 
mone rarus, luxuriae contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi 
cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providentissimus,'* &c., 
&c. — yornandes de Rebus Get las, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 



Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and 

dreaded too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all aiTection and from all contempt: 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise; 



26S 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814 



But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. JNow to Medora — Oh! my sinking heart, 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake; Long may her own be lighter than thou art! 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake: jYet was I brave — mean boast where all are 

The first may turn, but not avenge the blow; j brave! 

The last expires, but leaves no living foe: jEven insects sting for aught they seek to save. 

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, .This common courage which with brutes we 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! | share, 

XII. That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 

^^ n -1 • 1 • J I • u 4. Small merit claims: but 'twas my nobler hope 

r\ one are all evil — quickenmg round his heart, ^^ ^ , c -..u u *-n «. 

.^ t- r ^^ ij r^j ^ i-lo teach my few with numbers still to cope. 

One softer feeling would not yet depart: k i, t t j *u ^^ • \ \^y a 

^f, ,j , . .v 1 1 J Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed: 

Oft could he sneer at others, as beguiled at v • u ji 

,3 . .1, r r 1 u-ij No medium now — we perish or succeed! 

By passions worthy of a fool or child: o 1 ^ -^ u -^ • 1 f 4. j- 

\- ^ J • . .u . • • ^ .11 u ^ So let it be — it irks not me to die; 

\ et 'gainst that passion vamlv still he strove, t^ ,. ..v ^ ..u u ^\. ^a 

.j^ I,--, i^u ' rr I I But thus to urgc them whence thev cannot riy. 

And even in him It asks the name of Love! m i , 1 .1 i 1, j v^^i c " 
,r ., 1 1 11 r, 1 'My lot hath long had little of my care, 

\ es. It was love — unchangeable — unchanged, ^ \ , ^ ^.j ^^ , rn /• «., 

c' 1 '1 , r r 11, J Kut chafes mv pride thus baffled in the snare: 

relt but for one irom whom he never ranged; t .i.- 1 'n^ r*^ 4. .. .. i *. 

rp, V r- ^ ^- -, -1 ,1. ^ ': Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last 

Though fairest captives daily met his eye, i^^ ^ -, <.^ • 1 «.-> 

Tj if , J T.^ u ^ iji 5^ ^l I Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 

He shunnd, nor sought, but coldly pass d them Vm.t7 : I ..i rn «. ..t. r «. 

, ^ ' ^ ' -^ ^ p, , Oh, Fate! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate; 

T^v ^* U.J •] • ^ .^^^^,^J: She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

1 hough many a beauty droop d m prison d| ^ -' 

None ever soothed his most, unguarded hour. ^^'^• 

Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, Thus with himself communion held he, till 

Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 1 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, I hill: 

And yet — oh, more than all! — untired by time; | There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 

Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, jHe heard those accents never heard too oft; 

Could render sullen were she near to smile, I Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent | And these the notes his bird of beauty sung: 

On her one murmur of his discontent; ' -r^ . i 4.u 4. 4.^ a^^ ^r.^^*^ ^„,^n 

wru- I. .11 ij ^ -.u • -A 1 Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 

Which still would meet with loy, with calm- t 1 i i 4. 4. t u*. r ^ 

•' ^* r, , Lonely and lost to light forevermore, 

T 4.4u^'L-i' 1 r -ri- u ui. ' j Savc whcn to thinc my heart rcsponsivc swclls, 

Lest that his look of grief should reach her r^v 4. 11 • 4. -i ^ c 

,,T, • IV. ^j J.I Then trembles into silence as before. 

Which nought removed, nor menaced to re-j 

move "There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 

If there be love in mortals — this was love! \ Burns the slow flame, eternal,— but unseen ; 
He was a villain — ay, reproaches shower | Which not the darkness of despair can damp. 

On him— but not the passion, nor its power, ' Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 
Nor guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! 



" Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there 
recline: 
He paused a moment— till his hastening men The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Pass'dthe first winding downward to the glen. Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 
** Strange tidings!— many a peril have I past, <» ]viy fondest — faintest — latest accents hear: 
Nor know I why this next appears the last! | Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove; 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear,; Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

-sole reward of so much 



Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; 
And if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile,' 
We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
Ay, let them slumber — peaceful be their; 

dreams! [beams 

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant ** In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it 
As kindle high l<j iii,L;ht (luU hknv, tliou Without thine ear to listen to my lay, [glad? 

breeze !j Still must my song my thouglits, my soul l)e- 

To warm thc.c sh.w ;i.Miifr..,^ (.rilu- seas. trav: 



The first— last- 
love!" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridor, 
' And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave 

o'er: 
'*My own Medora! — sure thy song is sad — " 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



269 



Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were 

mute! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the 

wind, [sail 

And deem'd the breath that gently fann'd thy 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge. 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star. 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears, my truth, my vow! 
At length 'twas noon — I hail'd and blest the 

mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas, it pass'd ! 
Another came — O God! 'twas thine at last! 
Would that those days were over! wilt thou 

ne'er. 
My Conrad, learn the joys of peace to share? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a 

home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies firom love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still. 
Should war with nature and its better will!" 

" Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long 
been changed; [ed, 

Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like aveng- 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn. 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind; 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last; 
But — O Medora! nerve thy gentler heart: 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
** This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this ! 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay: 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew: 
My love! thou mock'st my weakness; and 

would'st steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel; 



But trifle now no more with my distress. 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad! — dearest! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare: 
Light toil! to cull and dress thy frugal fare! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I 

guess'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest: thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow. 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow! 
The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp. 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along. 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear. 
Shall soothe or lull : — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.* 
Why, thou wert worse than he who broke his 

vow [now : 

To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the 

while : 
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
Lest time should raise that doubt to more thao 

dread. 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me— for — he came again!'* 

*< Again — again — and oft again, my love! 
If there be life below, and hope above. 
He will return — but now the moments bring 
The time of parting with redoubled wing : 
The why — the where — what boots it now to 

tell? [well! 

Since all must end in that wild word — fare- 
Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
Fear not — these are no formidable foes; 
And here shall watch a more than wonted 

guard. 
For sudden siege and long defence prepared: 
Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay; 
And this thy comfort — that when next we meet, 
Security shall make repose more sweet. 
List! — 'tis the bugle" — Juan shrilly blew — 
"One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !' 



* Orlando Furioso, Canto 10. 



270 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814, 



She rose — she sprung — she chmg to his em- 
brace, 

Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face; 

He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye,' 

Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 

Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 

In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms; 

Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 

So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! 

Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun! 

It told 'twas sunset, and he cursed that sun. 

Again — again — that form he madly press'd! 

Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd! 

A.nd tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 

One moment gazed, as if to gaze no more; 

Felt that for him earth held but her alone, 

Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad 
gone? 

XV. 

" And is he gone?" — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude: 
*''Twas but an instant past, and here he stood! 
And now " — without the portal's porch she 

rush'd. 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell; 
But still her lips refused to send — '^Farewell!" 
For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
We promise, hope, believe — there breathes 

despair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase: 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 
And then it flow'd, and frenzied seem'd to 

swim, [dew'd 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
*< He's gone!" — against her heart that hand is 

driven, [heaven; 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to 
She look'd, and saw the heaving of the main; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
** It is no dream — and I am desolate!" 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turned his 

head; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey. 
His lone but lovely dwelling on the steep. 
That hail'd him first when homeward from the 

deep; 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 



W^hose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 
jOn her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
i There he might rest — but on Destruction's 
! brink : 

Yet once almost he stopp'd, and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind. 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 
Again he hurries on; and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears. 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff,begins the beach, 
There checks his speed; but pauses less to 

breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view: 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud. 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen ; 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
That checks low mirth but lacks not courtesy; 
All these he wielded to command assent; 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who 

heard, 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word. 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone; 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 
Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — **Areall prepared?" 
'< They are — nay, more — embark'd: the latest 

Waits but my chief " [boat 

** My sword and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung; 
<< Call Pedro here!" — He comes — and Conrad 
bends 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



271 



With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends : 
** Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : [shine 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall 
On our return — till then all peace be thine!" 
This said, his brother pirate's hand he wrung. 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the 
stroke, [broke; 

Around the waves' phosphoric* brightness 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands : 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? 
Alas! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow? 
Ah! never loved he half so much as now! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 



*By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every 
stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is fol- 
lowed by a slight flash like sheet-lightning from the 
water. 



Again he mans himself and turns away; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and 
ends; [chart, 

Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art: 
They to the midnight watch protract debate; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? 
Meantime the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering 

isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning 

smile: [bay 

And soon the night-glass through the narrow 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail, and mark how there 

supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslems shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; 
Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — . 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



' Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ?" — Dantk. 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night: 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword; 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the 

boast, 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will. 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and 

seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! [brave, 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 



Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest 

cheer. 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd: 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff" — 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to 

quaff", 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,* 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 
The long chibouquesf dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almasif to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark; 



• Cofl-ee. 



t Pipe. 



X Dancing-girls. 



272 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



But waves are somewhat treacherous in the 
And revellers may more securely sleep [dark; 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they 

must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's 

boast. 

III. 
With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to 

wait, 
Bows his bent head, his hand salutes the floor. 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore: 
*' A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself w^ould tell the rest."* 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than 

years, [fears. 

And pale his cheek with penance, not from 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, j 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er; 
A-found his form his loose long robe was| 

thrown, [alone; 

And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven ^ 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd. 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

*' Whence com'st thou, Dervise?" 

*' From the outlaw's den, 

A fugitive " 

*' Thy capture where and when?" 
*' From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle. 
The Saick was bound; but Allah did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's 
gains [chains. 

The Rovers won: our limbs have worn their 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost: 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 



* It has been objected that Conrad's entering dis- 
guised as a spy is out of nature; — perhaps so. I find 
something not unlike it in history. 

" Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the 
Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the color 
of his hair, to vLsit Carthage in the character of his own 
ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by, 
the discovery that he had entertained and dismissed the j 
Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be re- ' 
jected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which! 
would not have been imagined unless m tiie life of a , 
hero." — Gibbon, Decline and Fall, vol. vi., p. 180. I 



Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here; 
With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear?" 

'* How speed the outlaws? stand they well 
prepared, [guard? 

Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest con- 
sumed?" 

** Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy: 
I only heard the reckless waters roar, [shore; 
Those waves that would not bear me from the 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity; 
And felt that all which Freedom's bosom 

cheers. 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least,from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha! my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing weaves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall 

bring; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply. 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." [man, 
'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; 
Nor show'd high relish for a banquet prest, 
And less respect for every fellow-guest. 
'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook: 
The feast was usher'd in, but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

** What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou 

suppose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred 

pledge. 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!" 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



273 



** Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill; 
And my stern vow and order's* laws oppose 
.To break or mingle bread with friends or foes : 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head; [throne. 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

"Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer; then in peace depart. 
How many? — Ha! it cannot sure be day? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay? 
It shines a lake of fire! — away — away! 
Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 
Accursed Dervise! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay 
him now!" 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight; 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb. 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's 

ray ! [plume, 

His close but glittering casque, and sable 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler 

gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite,' 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high and torches from below; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash and shouts to 

swell — 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry. 
They seize that Dervise! — seize on Zatanai!f 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there. 
Since far too early and too well obey'd. 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew: 
Tis answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant 

crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quicicness 01 career. 
And deem design had left me single here?" 



* The dervises are in colleges, and of diflferent orders, 
as the monks. 
tSaten. 



Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; [sway 
Completes his fury what their fear begun. 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, 

surprise. 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he, and yet he dreads the blow. 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight;* 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling 

— throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within. 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair! 
But short their greeting, shorter his reply — 
'Tis well — but Seyd escapes, — and he must die : 
Much hath been done, but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 

V. 
Quick at the word, they seized him each a 

torch. 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like the deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
*<Oh! burst the Haram — wrong not on your 

lives 
One female form; remember — w^ have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay; 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker 

prey. 
Oh! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the 

door. 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with tlie floor; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed 

smoke. 



* A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Me7noirs, page 24. " The 
Seraskier received a wound on the thigh ; he plucked up 
his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit 
the field/' 

18 



274 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save: with lusty 

arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 
Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking 

frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbued. 
But who is she whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck away? 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd? 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair; [war, 
For in that pause compassion snatch'd from 
The foe before retiring, fast and far. 
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowdier fled — then rallied — then with- 
stood, [few, 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how- 
Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die! 
And flame for flame and blood for blood must 

tell, 
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
When wTath returns to renovated strife, [life. 
And those who fought for conquest strike for 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd! 
'* One effort — one — to break the circling host!" 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all is 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, [lost! 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle 

yet— 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and tram- 
pled o'er. 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home. 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his 

breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed. 
Safe in the dome of ©ne who held their creed. 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 

* Gulnare, a female name. It means, literally, the 

flower of the pomegranate. 



And dried those tears for life and fame that 

flow'd: 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in de- 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy [spair, 
That smooth'd his accents; soften'd in his eye: 
'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore be- 

dew'd 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave: 
The Corsair vow'd protection, sooth'd aftVight, 
As if his homage were a woman's right, [vain : 
<* The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — 
Yet much I long to view that chief again; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life my loving lord remember'd not!" 

VIII. 

And him she saw where thickest carnage 

spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd— bleeding— baffled of the death he 

sought. 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, [pain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of 
And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed 

again — 
But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die! 
Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's w^ild gesture waved, a law ! 
'Tis he indeed— disarm'd, but undeprest, 
His sole regret the life he still possest; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that 

will, [could kill. 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then 
Oh, were there none, of all the many given. 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven! 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, [death? 
Who more than all had striven and struck for 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless Fortune's 

wheel. 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt, 
He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate, now nerves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening 

wound, 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 
Though the far-shouting of the distant crowd, 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



275 



Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near. 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there. 
To note how much the life yet left could bear; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst. 
That day by day death still forbea.rs to slake, 
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
**0h! water — water!" — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer; for if he drinks, he dies. 
This was his doom; — the Leech, the guard, 

were gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 

X. 

'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind. 
When all its elements convulsed, combined. 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse — 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries, "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is 

o'er. 
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And to itself, all— all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest, as once, unseen, un- 
sought; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews, 
All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our 

fate; 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess of hell or heaven; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remem- 

ber'd not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stern reflection each a crime; 
The withering sense of evil unreveaPd, 



Not cankering less because the more con- 

ceal'd — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
Ay, Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall, 
j Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
: The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
jNot the loud recreant wretch who boasts and 

flies; 
IBut he who looks on death — and silent dies: 
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career. 
He half-way meets him should he menace 

near! 

XI. 
In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this- fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the 

same : — 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd; 
One thought alone he could not — dared not 

meet — 
'* Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?" 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he 

raised, 
And strain'd with rage the chain on which he 

gazed; [relief. 

But soon he found — or feign 'd — or dream'd 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief. 
^'And now come torture when it will — or may. 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day!" 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were 

done : 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he 

stemm'd— [condemn'd— 

Disguised, discover'd, — conquering,— ta'en,— 
A chief on land, an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying,— saving,— prison'd,— and asleep ! 

XII. 
He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep— Ah! happy if in death! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends? 
His foes are gone, and here he hath no friends; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly fagei 



276 



THE CORSAIR, 



1814. 



Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on tlie lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves ofgemm'd and braided hair; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot. 



But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 
That would confess me at so fair a shrine!" 

Strange though it seem, — yet with extremest 

grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

T-i ^f I,- " ri ^ ~ AC n .u And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; 

Ihat shines like snow, and falls on earth as . , ,. • 1 , • ^ ^ ^ \ 

, p., I -, And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

* llill even the scariold'^ echoes with thpir iest' 
Through guards and dunnest night how came k. ^ , ^1 • , 1 • 1 •. 1 • 

s , , ,. *^ 1 V . -n 4- J ^ \\^\. not the loy to which it seems akin — 

Ah! ratner ask what will not woman dare? K^ , • ^^ x. . .l . • 1 • 

^x-i .1 J -.- 1 J Ti 4-1, r^ 1 lilt may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare! ,,T, /, -, .1 . n i.%j r- j 

01 \a 4-1 J u-i 4.U -D u 7 ivvhate'er it was that fiash'd on Conrad, now 

She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's! . , ,. ., , . .r 1 .1-1 

. ^ jA laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 

-r 4.4. • 1 4. I,- • 4. 4. And these his accents had a sound of mirth. 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, [ . -r^v i ^1 u • .-. 

ou 1 f^ I,- -A x.- ' 4. • u 1 ' I As if the last he could enioy on earth; 

She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, ^- 4. j • 4. v- 4. c \x. i, 4.1! ^ i. ^ 

A\-i,- u r. • 4- J ?j I, x. A \ c \\^^ 'gainst his nature — for through that short 

Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — I ^. ^ r .^ 

And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way Itt 4.u*t-^i.jt^ r 1 j 

p, 1 ■, 1 4-u 4. 4- 4.1, 4. • l-t^G'^v thoughts had he to spare from gloom and 

1 hrough drowsy guards that must that sign ! ° r & 

XIV. 



*' Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour, [power 
Thee would I spare — nay more — would save 

thee now, [allow; 

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength 
But all I can, I will: at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to 

both." 

' Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 



obey. [blows. 

Worn out with toil, and tired with changing 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no 

more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring. 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder: *' Can he calmly sleep, 

While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 

And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 

What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? | Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall: 

True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, j Tempt not thyself with peril — me with hope 

And me and mine he spared from worse thanjOf flight from foes with whom I could not cope; 

woe; [breaks — | Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 

'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber | The one of all my band that would not die? 

How heavily he sighs! — he starts — awakes!" jYet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

,T • J V- 1 J 1 J 1 J -.1 .1 iTill to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 

He raised his head; — and dazzled with theiA/r 1 • 4.u ^i, t 4. j rr^ jt 

,,. J J 1- -r-. • t. n- ,, jMy sole resources m the path I trod [God! 

His eye seemed dubious if it saw aright: [light, kx7 *i, i i j i 

,, ^ J V- u J ^v .• r v_- T. • Were these — my bark, my sword, my love, my 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain l^^r i . t i r4- • ^l i_r i 

rx> , 1 1 ^ ij u- 4.1, ^\ V 1 ■ : Ihe last I left in youth — He leaves me now — 

loo harshly told him that he lived again. ' a j a/t u 4. i ti- -n 4. i i 

., AT'u . • /i_ ^ r -. -r . 1 ^r • And Man but works His will to lay me low. 

*' What IS that lorm? 11 not a shape of air, ly u 4.u U4. 4. i t-j- ^u -.u 

^, ,, . , .... - . ^ J I have no thought to mock His throne with 

Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous; ^ 

fair'" i P'"^^'^'" 

; Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 

** Pirate! thou know'stmenot: — but I am one. It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done: j My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
Look on me — and remember her thy hand ',That might have better kept so true a brand; 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 

band. [why — ' 

I come through darkness — and I scarce know' * In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold. 
Yet not to hurt— I would not see thee die." '^"^ AnneBoleynintheTower, when grasping her neck. 
^^^^ i-jiiii- u 1 I she remarked that it "was too slender to trouble the 

ii SO, kind lady! thine the only eye | headsman much." During one part of the French Rev- 

That would not here in that gay hope del ight:,olution, it became a f.ishion to leave some />'/6'Zf as a legacy; 

Theirs is the chance— and let them use their \"^ ^^^^"^"^^^y^J ^^^^"°"V^lT°•'^^ 

. , j that period would form a melancholy jcst-book of a con- 

^^8"^' Isiderablcsizc. 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



277 



For her in sooth my voice would mount above: 
Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd,Gulnare 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were so fair." 

"Thou lov'st another then? — but what to me 

Is this? — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be: 
f- But yet — thou lov'st — and — oh! I envy those 
|\ Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 

Who never feel the void — the wandering 
thought [wrought." 

That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath 

*' Lady, methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

*' My love stern Seyd's! Oh — No — No — not 
my love: [strove 

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best, 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
Of — * Dost thou love?' and burn to answer. 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, [* No !' 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check'd, nor quicken'd — calmly 

cold: 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
And chiil'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes— had I ever proved that passion's zeal. 
The change to hatred were at least to feel; 
But still he goes unmourn'd, returns unsought. 
And oft when present — absent from my 

thought. 
Or when reflection comes — and come it must — 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust : 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 



Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ; 
Or seek another and give mine release — 
But yesterday — I could have said, to peace! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember, captive, 'tis to break thy chain; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below. 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — morn breaks and I must now away: 
'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to- 
day !" 

XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
And bow'd her head, and torn'd her to depart, 
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
And was she here? and is he now alone? 
What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his 

chain? 
The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 
That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's 
Already polish'd by the hand divine! [mine, 

Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs. 
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? 
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven; 
By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
And seal their own to*spare some wanton's woe ! 

XVI, 

'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt. 
Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him! 



CANTO THE THIRD. 

'Come vedi — ancor non m'abbandona." — Dante. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,* 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun; 



* The opening lines, as far as section li., have, per- 
haps, little business here, and were annexed to an un- 
published (though printed) poem, ["The Curse of Min- 
erva "] ; but they were written on the spot, in the 
Spring of 181 1, and — I scarce know why — the reader 
must excuse their appearance here — if he can . 



Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
On cold ^gina's rock, and Idra's Isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 



/8 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing 

glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of 

heaven; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens! here thy Wisest look'd his 

last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's* latest day! 
Tsot yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sank below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quafPd — the spirit fled, 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die! 

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. f 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form: 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 

play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And, bright around with quivering beams be- 
set. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, if 
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm. 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
\nd dull \/ere his that pass'd them heedless by. 

"vgain the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
'^ulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his wave.«^ in milder tints unfold 



Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to 
smile. 



* Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set (the hour of execution], notwithstanding the en- 
treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

t The twilight in Cirecce is much shorter than in our 
own country ; the days in winter are longer, but summer 
of less duration. 

t l he kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of iheseus, between which and the tree the wall 
intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and 
Iliesus has no stream at all. 



Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to 
Oh! who can look along thy native sea, [thee? 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, i 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? 
Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance 

frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain. 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again! 

III. 

The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and 
gone — [one! 

With it he comes not — sends not — faithless 
The wind was fair though light; and storms 
I were none. 

I Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
I His only tidings that they had not met! [tale 
I Though wild, as now, far different were the 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had 

pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast; 
Sadly she sate on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not, felt not this — nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat. 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they 

sought; [few — 

Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they 

knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: 
Something they would have said; but seem'd 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. [to fear 
She saw at once, yet sank not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high. 
That deem'd not, till they found their energy. 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



27. 



While yet was hope, they soften'd, flutter'd, 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which 

said, [dread." 

** With nothing left to love, there's nought to 
'Tis more than nature's — like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

** Silent you stand— nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies ["well — 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he 
lies." 

* * Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead: 

He saw him bound; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then 

withstood; [dued: 

Her own dark soul — these words at once sub- 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping 

eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew. 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report [grieve ; 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council, words wax'd warm and 

strange. 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair: 
W^hate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and 

led, 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are true. 

V. 

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate [fate, 
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's 
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell. 
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 
Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of 

mind; 
While many an anxious glance her large dark 

eye 
Sends iu Us idle search for sympathy, 



His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,* 
But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
*< Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest! 
Plis doom is fix'd — he dies: and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy 

hate; 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold : 
Report speaks largely of bis pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! 
While baffled, weakened by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier 

prey; 
But once cut off" — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnafre! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 
If for each hair of his a massy mine 
Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 
If all our Arab tales divulge or dream [deem! 
Of wealth were here — that gold should not re- 
It had not now redeem'd a single hour 
But that I know him fetter'd in my power; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

*'Nay, Seyd! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free; 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

**His capture could! — and shall I then resign 
One day to him — the wretch already mine? 
Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance? — 
Fair suitor! — to thy virtuous gratitude, [thine! 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
Which thee and thine alone of all could spare. 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear: 
I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 
Thou need'st not answer — thy confession 

speaks. 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee, and beware! 
'Tis not his life alone may claim such care! 
Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore [no — 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but 



* The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary. The beads 
are in number ninety -nine. 



28o 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 
Now, 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe: 
I.ook to thyself, nor deem thy falsehood safe!" 
He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu: 
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces sub- 
dued; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare, 
When soft could feel, and when incensed 

could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she 
knew [grew — 

How deep the root from whence compassion 
vShe was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; 
Still half-unconscious — heedless of his wrath. 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose [woes! 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's 

VI. 

Meanwhile long, anxious, weary, still the same 
RoU'd day and night — his soul could terror 

tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than 

dead, 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
W^hen every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die; 
'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
That conflict deadlier far than all before; 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood; 
To gaze on thine own heart, and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well; 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
And blot life's latest scene with calumny; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may 

bear; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim; 
The life thou leav'st below denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love; 



'And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

I Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sus- 

! tain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain: 
And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill? 

j Since not to sink beneath, is something still! 

i 

I The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gul- 
I nare — [there ; 

The second — third — and still she came not 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had 
Or else he had not seen another sun. [done. 
The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling 

might : 
Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep. 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent. 
Roused by the roar of his own element! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas, too vainly near! 
Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud; 
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star: 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his 

chain, 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to 

strike; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his 

groan. 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door 
I A light step came — it paused — it moved once 

more ; 
I Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 
j'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she! 
jWhate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; 
Yet changed since last within that ceil she 
came, [frame: 

More pale her cheek, more tremulous her 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — ** Thou 

must die! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not 
worse." 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



281 



"Lady! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the 
same : [spare, 

Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

«* Why should I seek? because — oh, didst thou 

not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavei7's lot? 
Why should I seek?— hath misery made thee 

blind 
To the fond w^orkings of a woman's mind? 
And must I say ? — albeit my heart rebel [tell — 
With all that woman feels, but should not 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is 

moved: [den'd — loved. 

It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — mad- 
Reply not, tell not thou thy tale again. 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; [ fair, 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own thou wert not lonely here: 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to 

roam! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my 

head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread I 
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free. 
Receive this poniard — rise and follow me!" 

*'Ay — in my chains! my steps will gently 
tread, [head! 

With these adornments, o'er each slumbering 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?" 

''Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd ihe 

guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain : 
Without some aid how here could I remain? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time. 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime; 
The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
I see thee shudder, but my soul is changed — 
Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and it shall be 

avenged — 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then, nor thou too dear: 
But he has said it — and the jealous well — 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel — 



'Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought me — somewhat 

high— 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said, 
But for his rescue I with thee had fled, [rue, 
'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs 
Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 
This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still 
Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 
There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the 
What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, [sea! 
To wear but till the gilding frets away? 
I saw thee — loved thee- — owed thee all — would 
If but to show how grateful is a slave, [save. 
But had he not thus menaced fame and life 
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in 

strife), 
I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
Now I am all thine own, for all prepared: 
Thou lov'st me not — nor know^'st — or but the 

worst. 
Alas! this love — that hatred are the first — 
Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst 

not start, 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart; 
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow: 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppres- 
sor Seyd!" 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither'd fame, so low: 
Seyd is mine enemy; had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand; 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy 

breast! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest!" 

** Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
If thou wilt perish I will fall with thee. 
My life, my love, my hatred — all below 
I Are on this cast — Corsair! 'tis but a blow! 
I Without it flight were idle — how evade 
I His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 



W 



282 



THE CORSAIR, 



1814. 



My youth disgraced — tlie long, long wasted 

years, 
One blow shall cancel with our future fears; 
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
I'll try the firmness of a female hand, [o'er — 
The guards are gain'd — one moment all were 
Corsair! we meet in safety or no more; 
If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turnM, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that 
bound [sound. 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude. 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not 
where [there; 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard was 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to 

bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air; 
He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing 

sky: 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door 
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figure outward pass'd. 
Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis 

She at last! 
No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill — 
'* Thanks to that softening heart, she could not 

kill!" 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating 

hair. 
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair. 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
They meet — upon her brow — unknown — for- 
got— 
Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis 
blood! 

X. 
He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt fore- 
shown; [chain 



• Yet on his arms might ever there remain; 
i But ne'er from strife, captivity, remorse — 
:From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd, so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
I As now they froze before that purple stain. 
[That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
I Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmov'd — 

but then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men! 

XI. 
** 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
I All words would now be vain — away — away — 
I Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
I The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join; 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 
She clapp'd her hands — and through the gal- 
lery pour, [Moor; 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore; 
The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 



Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze 

blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah! — since that fatal night, though brief the 

time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride: 
He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 

Their freezing aspect and averted air, 

And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 



He had been tempted, — chasten'd, — and the i Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 



i8i4. 



THE CORSAIR. 



283 



She knelt beside him, and his hand she press'd,j And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
** Thou may'st forgive though Allah's self de-i Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 

test; I To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 

But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ?| She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 



Reproach me — but not yet — O ! spare me now! 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou 
wilt." 

XV. 



Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still. 



She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself 

rr-i ^P ^^li 1 J • 5 1 ^v k u 1- * Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress; 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he!^^,^,^, ^^^ ^^^ ^_^ ^^ ,^__ ,._^ 



This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could he 
less? 



iWhat she has done no tears can wash away, 
I And Heaven must punish on its angry day: 



But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest 

They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. ! ^"'^ ., , , , u .- ? i, -i*. 

c,,.,/ 1 r • ^i_ u x, ^\, I But — it was done: he knew whate'er her guilt. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the -r> \^- lu ^ -a ^ 4.1, ♦. i.i j 

' ' % For him that poniard smote, that blood w; 

surge, [urge; ^ 

The blue waves sport around the stern they 



Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
And ampler canvas woos the wind from high; 
She bears her down majestically near. 
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; 
A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance: — 
** 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag! again — 

again — 
I am not all deserted on the main!" 
They own the signal, answer to the hail. 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
** 'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the 

deck, 



spilt; 



And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark eyed slave, 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he 

gave, [^^d meek, 

Who now seem'd changed and humbled, faint 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too 

late— 
So soft in love, so wildly nerved in hate; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his 

own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
** Gulnare!" — but she replied not — ** dear Gul- 

nare!" 



^ -, J. ij4-i,-i. ..ui ,|She raised her eye — her only answer there — 

Commandnor duty could their transport check !. ^ , •^,, , i • v- i 

■\■\T^\.^• U4. 1 -^ J r -J r -j ! At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 

W^ith light alacrity and gaze of pride, rside;'Tri- -l j j • i. r .i. .. .• ^ 
rr,, • I,- ^ I,' i/llf he had driven her from that resting-place. 

They view him mount once more his vessel's t^t- i. j i, i ^t. f\\, \ 

A '^ -1 1 • • u J r His had been more or less than mortal heart, 



A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet. 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 



But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast. 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this. 
; The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
^^^' I To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow,; To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance 



Yet grieve to win him back without a blow; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering 

stare. 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare j 



fling, 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile; 
The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 



284 



THE CORSAIR. 



1814. 



And sportive dolphins bend them through the And the cold flowers her colder hand con- 
spray; [shriek, tain'd,* 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant In tliat last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice And made it almost mockery yet to weep: 
gleams, [beams. The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, | lurk'd below — 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
foam! And hurls the spirit from her throne of light I 



XIX. 



The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 



Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 



And 'midst them Conrad seeksMedora'stower:|And wish'd repose— but only for a while; 

He looks in vain— 'tis strange— and all remark, ' But the white shroud, and each extended tress. 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. Long— fair— but spread in utter lifelessness, 

'Tis strange— of yore its welcome never fail'd, I Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 

Nor now perchance extinguish'd, only veil'd. j Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, I These— and the pale pure cheek, became the 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. | bier — 

Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, ^But shejs nothing— wherefore is he here? 

To bear him like an arrow to that height! xxi. 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave ; n^ ^^^.^ ^^ question— all were answer'd now 

He waits not, looks not— leaps into the ^3^ ^^^ ^,3^ glance on that still, marble brow. 

wave, , ., , lit was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, j^e love of youth, the hope of better years. 
Ascends the path familiar to his e^:. [and high j^e source of softest wishes, tenderest fears. 
He reach d his turret door— h. paused- -no ^he only living thing he could not hate, 

sound W^as reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 

Broke from within; and all was night around. | i^^t did not feel it less;— the good explore, 
He knock'd, and loudly— footstep nor reply ip^j. ^^^^^^ ^1,^,5^ ^.^^1^^^ ^^j^^j.^ guilt can never 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him^ soar- 

Tr 1^^^ 1^ , 1 1 /--I r ,• L^"^ i The proud, the wayward, who have fix'd belovv 

He knock d, but faintly— for his trembling -pheir joy, and find this earth enough for woe. 

Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. j L^ge in that one their all— perchance a mite— 

The portal opens— 'tis a well-known face— jgut who in patience parts with all delight? 

But not the form he panted to embrace. ^^11 many a stoic eye and aspect stern 

Its hps are silent— twice his own essay'd, 1 Mask hearts where grief hath Httle left to learn : 

And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd; ^^nd many a withering thought lies hid,not lost, 

He snatch'd the lamp— its light will answer j^ smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall, [all — 

He would not wait for that reviving ray — 

As soon could he have linger'd there for day; 

But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 

Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 

His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 

All that his heart believed not — yet foretold! 



XXII. 



By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suff'ering breast; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
And Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; 
He turnd not— spoke not— sunk not— tix'd,So feeble now— his mother's softness crept 

. ■'' ^^^^^i I To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook: i^ ^^s the very weakness of his brain, 
He gazed— how long we gaze despite of pain, i which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain! ■ 

In life itself she was so still and fair, ' , * J" ^^^ ^;7^"f '' 1^ the custom to strew flowers on 

rT>, , 1 , .,, ,, • , ,, , the bodies of the dead, and 111 the luuiUs of young per- 

That death with gentler aspect withcr'd there; sons to place a nosegay. 



LARA. 



285 



None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been: 
Nor long theyflow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless brokenness of heart: 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind. 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide! 

XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to 

wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot — like that had harden'd too; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the 

rock; 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved 

till now. 
The thunder came— that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness and the Lily's growth : 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 



I Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell; 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground! 

XXIV. 
I'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

Few dare: though now Anselmo sought his 
I tower. 

He was not there — nor seen along the shore; 
jEre night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er: 
I Another morn — another bids them seek, 
I And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; 

Mount, grotto, cavern, valley search'd in vain, 
iThey find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain; 
I Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
i 'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away. 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that 
I day. 

:Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
j Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! 
I Long mourn'd his band whom none could 
i mourn beside; 

And fair the monument they gave his bride : 

For him they raise not the recording stone — 
: His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 

He left a Corsair's name to other times, 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.* 

* See Notes at the end ©f this volume. 



LARA 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide 

domain,* 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain: 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 
There be bright faces in the busy hall. 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all 

mirth. 



* The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being 
Spanish, and no circumstance of local or national de- 
scription fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any 
country or age, the word " Serf," which could not be 
correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were 
never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been em- 
ployed to designate the followers of our fictitious chief- 
tain. Lord Byron meant Lara for a chief of the Morea. 



The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe. 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, 

then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 
And Lara left in youth his fatherland. 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 



286 



LARA. 



Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name. 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride. 
The young forgot him, and the old had died; 
*' Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear, 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 
And whence they know not, why they need 
not guess; [o'er. 

They more might marvel, w^hen the greeting's 
Not that he came, but came not long before 
No train is his beyond a single page. 
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
Years had roU'd on, and fast they speed away 
To those that wander as to those that stay; 
But lack of tidings from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 
The present dubious or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime. 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd 

by time; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth w^as haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course. 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 



And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly 

seen, 
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past; 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung. 
That darts in seeming playfulness around, 



And makes those feel that will not own the 

wound: [neath 

All these seem'd his, and something more be- 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent 

breathe. 
Ambition, gloiy, love, the common aim, 
That some can conquer, and that all would 

claim, 
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 



Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — un- 
known: 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew. 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the magnates of his land; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; 
But still he only saw, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care; 
He did not follow what they all pursued. 
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd; 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain: 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, andshow'd him still alone; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
Theydeem'd him better than his air express'd. 

VIII. 

'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave. 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below. 
And found his recompense in joy or woe. 
No tame, trite medium : for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought: 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 



LARA. 



287 



On that the feebler elements had raised : 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky: 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream? 
Alas! he told not; — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not 
break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 
From all communion he would start away: 
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 
Through night's long hours would sound his 

hurried tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around: 
They heard, butwhisper'd — " //^^/ must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some 

had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should 

have been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the 

dead. 
That still beside his open volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest? 
All was not well, they deem'd; but where the 

wrong? [long; 

Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too 
And such besides were too discreetly wise. 
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise; 
But if they would — they could" — around the 

board. 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
The stars are studding, each with imaged 

beam; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 
And yet they glide like happiness away; 
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
The immortal lights that live along the sky: 
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee: 
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
And innocence would offer to her love. 
These deck the shore; the waves their chan- 
nel make 
In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
All was so still, so soft in ©arth and air, 



You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 
Secure that nought of evil could delight 
To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 
It was a moment only for the good: 
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood. 
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate; 
Such scene his soul no more could contem- 
Such scene reminded him of other days, [plate; 
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that 

now — 
No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall. 
And his high shadow shot along the wall; 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes. 
Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and theii 

faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page. 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age. 
Where history's pen its praise or blame sup- 
plies. 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeams 

shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that 

there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 
'Twas midnight — all was slumber; the lone 

light [night. 

Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the 
Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they 

hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 



11.1 



288 



LARA. 



Was Larastretch'd; his half- drawn sabre near, 
DroppVl it should seem in more than nature's 

fear; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 
There lived upon his lij) the wish to slay; 
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there 

had died. 
Some imprecation of despairing pride; 
His eye was ahnost seal'd, but not forsook 
Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
They raise him — bear him — hush ! he breathes, 

he speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolors in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering 

limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strong 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land: 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas, that cannot hear! 

XIV. 
His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard; 
And by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow. 
Nor he interpret — yet with less surprise [eyes. 
Than those around their chieftain's state he 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own re- 
plied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthiow 
A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld, — 
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, — 
Rests at his heart ; the custom'd morning came. 
And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor 

leech. 
And soon the same in movement and in speech, 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, — 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead 

lowers [i^ight 

Than these were wont; and if the coming 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to liis marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
"^hose shuddering proved thei?' fear was less 

forgot. 



In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall; 
The waving banner and the clapping door. 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees. 
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd 

gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed, nor less afraid — 
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke? 
Those strange wild accents; his the cry that 

broke [heart 

Their slumber? his the oppress'd, o*er-labor'd 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them 

start? 
Could he who thus had suff'er'd, so forget, 
When such as saw that suff'ering shudder yet? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the eftect, but not the cause? 
Not so in him; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half 

told; 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot: 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would 

know his fate. [known, 

What had he been? what was he, thus un- 
Who walk'd their w^orld, his lineage only 

known ? 
A hater of his kind? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; 
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye: 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 



LARA. 



289 



And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem : 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast [from rest ; 
Which tenderness might once have wrung 
In vigilance of grief, that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret: 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth; 
AVith thought of years in phantom chase mis- 
spent. 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent, 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
(Vnd left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm. 
Till he at last confounded good and ill. 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ought. 
But in some strange perversity of thought. 
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside; 
And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime; 
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath, 
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to 

breathe, 
And long'd by good or ill to separate 
Himself from all who shared his mortal state: 
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own: 
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 
His blood in temperate seeming now would 

flow: 
Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd. 
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd! 
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd. 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd; 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start. 
His madness was not of the head but heart; ■ 



And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 
With all the chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart: 
It was not fove perchance, nor hate, nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
And once beheld, would ask of him again; 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate. 
If greeted once; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
wStill there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound: 
His presence haunted still; and from the 
He forced an all-unwilling interest; [breast 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget! 

XX, 
There is a festival, where knights and dames. 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
Appear — a high-born and a welcomed guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall. 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth. 
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on 

earth. 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 
And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad; 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair. 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there: 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this. 
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown. 
But seems as searching his, and his alone; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen: 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 



290 



LARA. 



Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze: 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw; 
Along the stranger's aspect, iix'd and stern, 
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could 
learn. 



** 'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and. those that 

heard, 
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word. 
** 'Tis he!" — '* 'Tis who?" they question far 

and near, 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look: 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not: the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided; neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed; [sneer, 

And drawing nigh, exclaim'd with haughty 
*' 'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what doth 

he here?" 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high; 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
** My name is Lara! — when thine own is 

known. 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 
'Tis Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there 

none [shun? 

Thyheart must answer, though thine ear would 

And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze 

again! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt. 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious 

look 
lie deign'd no answer, but his head he shook. 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one who, wert thou noble, were thy peer; 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 



Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy 

frown: 

Art thou not he, whose deeds " 

<* Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be ex- 

pressM." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed : 
** Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know. 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth. 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

*' To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
'* And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
I gage my life, my falchion, to attest 
My words; so may I mingle with the blest!'* 
What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall; 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness — away — away — 
Alas! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

** To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow!" Further 

word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard. 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke; 
Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though un- 
known, [bow'd. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly 
And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd; 
And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
With which that chieftain's brow would bear 

him down. 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide^ 
But that of one in his own heart secure 



LARA, 



291 - 



Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the 

good? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 
Alas! too like in confidence are each 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart 

to learn. 

XXV. 
And Lara < 

Well could that stripling word or sign obey: „ , • , ^ i,-,,, ^ . -, , , 

His only follower from those climes afar j ^ach wish, fulhll'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; ^tiH there was haughtiness in all he did 
For Lara left the shore from whence he'sprung. 1 



His walk the wood, his sport some foreign 
book; [brook: 

His resting-place the bank that curbs the 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 



: If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shown 
call'd his page, and went his way-l^^^ ^^^^h in reverence and in deeds alone; 
d that stripling word or sign obey : ^ ^J" ^''^^. ^"^i^V^^"/, ^""'^ ^'' ""^'^^ '''^'^^ ^^ess'd 



In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's 
land. 



A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid: 
His zeal, though more than that of servile 

hands. 
In act alone obeys; his air commands; 
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 



In such from him he rarely heard command; !^''gl'';yT ^'^'r ^^^^^ enjoin'd him by his lord. 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would' Jo hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 

■ Thome • I '""^ \vAe, or, if he wiUd it more. 

When Lara's lips breathed forth the words of'^" '°"^es of other times and tongues to pore; 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, l^ut ne er to mingle with the menial train 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, I Jo whom he show d nor deference nor disdain. 

Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice ^ut that well-worn reserve which proved he 
yqqqW !No sympathy with that familiar crew: [knew 

Now lost, abjured, for one— his friend, his all : \ ^}'''> f^"^}^ whate'er his station or his stem, 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide; l^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ Lara, not descend to them. 



Wliat marvel, then, he rarely left his side? 



XXVI. 
Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 
Hut had not marr'd, though in his beams he 

grew, [through; A latent fierceness that far more became 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone, His fiery climate than his tender frame: 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 



Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days. 
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
So femininely white, it might bespeak [cheek. 
Another sex, when match'd with that smooth 
But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays: 



would show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; 
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there. 



But from his aspect might be more than 

guess'd. 
Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 
Another ere he left his mountain shore, 



And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, That name repeated loud without reply, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
Hadtemper'd with a melancholy tinge; [fringe Start to the sound, as but rememberVl then; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there; I Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

share: [his age,| 

And pleased not him the sports that please | XXVIII. 

The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; ;He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, | And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance; | And when the crowd around and near him told 

And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'dj Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 

lone, [none; I Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Brief were his answers, and his questions Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 



292 



LARA. 



The color of young Kaled went and came, 
The lip of ashes and the cheek of flame; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, [threw 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks [shrinks. 
With heavy thoughts from which reflection 
Yes — there be things which we must dream 

and dare, 
And execute ere thought be half aware: 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight hepass'd; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if on something recognized right well; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore: [gone. 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were 
And all within that hall seem'd left alone; 
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 
That when his long dark shadow through the 

porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream, | 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, ' 



Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
W^ith thoughtful visage and imperious air; 
But long remain'd not: ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 



The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife. 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's 
guile, [wile; 

Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home. 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk 
Alike in naked helplessness recline; [supine. 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath. 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills in- 
creased, [least. 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Night wanes — the vapors round the moun- 
tains curl'd 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past. 
And lead him near to little, but his last: 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam. 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man! behold her glories shine. 
And cry exulting inly, ''They are thine!" 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see: 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee: 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier. 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; 
\\w\. creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 



^is morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call: 



'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 

The life or death of Lara's future fame; 

When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 

And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 

His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise 
given. 

To meet it in the eye of man and Heaven. 

Why comes he not? Such truths to be di- 
vulged, 

Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 



The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past. 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. 
" I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear — 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Betw^een my own and noble Lara's lands; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd. 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 



LARA. 



293 



The word I pledged for his I pledge again, |The others met within a neighboring hall, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain," And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
He ceased— and Lara answer'd, ** I am here ^he cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
To lend at thy demand a listening ear ;I^ haughty silence slowly strode away: 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, j ^^^ back'd his steed,hishomeward path he took. 

Whose words already might my heart havej^^^ ^^^t on Otho's towers a single look. 

wrung yj^ 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, L. , , , * ^ . , 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. I ff^ ""^^'^ ^^? he-that meteor of a mght, 

I know him not-but me it seems he knew ^'7,^° menaced but to disappear with hght? 
In lands where-but I must not trifle too : }^^f^ ^^^ "^'? ^zzelin ? who came and went 

Produce this babbler-or redeem the pledge; ■ ^° ^^^"'^ "° °^^^' "^^'^'^ °^^'^ '«'«"'• 



Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's 

edge." 
Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
** The last alternative befits me best. 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom. 
However near his own or other's tomb; 
With hand, whose almost careless coolness 

spoke 
Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke; 
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare. 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bear, [closed. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them 
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed; 
And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash. 
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash ; 
He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dexterous sleight along the 
ground. [then 

" Demand thy life!" He answer'd not: and 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to blackness in its demon hue; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow: 
Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 

So Httle sparing to the foe he fell'd, [held, | But not his pride ; and hate no more conceaPd \ 
That when the approaching crowd his arm with- 1 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
He almost turned the thirsty point on those | The friend of all who sought to work him woe : 



He left the dome of Otho long ere morn. 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn. 
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest. 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires dis- 

tress'd. 
Their search extends along, around the path. 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn: 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When agonized hands that ceased to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the 

sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not; and doubtinghope is left; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's 

name. 
Now daily mutter's o'er his blacken'd fame : 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd; 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heaPd, 



Who thus for mercy dared to interpose; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large? 
The general rumor ignorantly loud. 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd; 
They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech | The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ;| To win no confidence, and wake no love; 



294 



LARA. 



The sweeping fierceness which his soul be- 
tray'd, [blade; 

The skill with which he wielded his keen 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a word assuage: 
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless: 
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form. 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 



Within that land was many a malcontent, 
W^ho cursed the tyranny to which he bent; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law. 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or 

friends: 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress, each was lord. 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands, [hands; 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
And now, diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone. 
But more for him than them that fear was 

grown ; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst; | 
And each long restless night, and silent mood. 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude: | 

And though his lonely habits threw of late | 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed with-' 

drew. 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew, 
(^old to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye; | 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof! 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. | 
And they who watch'd might mark that, day 

by day, ' 

Some new retainers gather'd to his sway; 
But most of late, since Fzzelin was lost, 



'He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous 
\ host: 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; 
Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
I With these, the people, then his fellow -thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, 
I The million judged but of him as they found; 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven, 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 
And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; 
Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence: 
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change. 
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well -won charms success was sure to 

snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought; 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound 

slaves 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right; 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you 

will, 
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and 

spread, [be fed. 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms 

IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had 

gain'd 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd : 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both: 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound; 
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
liKjuiry into deeds at distance done; 



LARA. 



395 



By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E''en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to 

urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 
And is again; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate. 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair. 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay. 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; 
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud; 
Invoice — mien — gesture, savage nature spoke. 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife. 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 
The varying fortune of each separate field. 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that 

yield? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 
In this the struggle was the same with all; 
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-plain: 
In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem'd few were slain while more remain'd 

to slay. 
It was too late to check the w^asting brand, 
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land; 
The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread. 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XI. 

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse 

strung. 
The first success to Lara's numbers clung: 
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all; 
They form no longer to their leader's call : 
In blind confusion on the foe they press. 
And think to snatch is to secure success. 
The lust of booty, and the thirst' of hate, 



Lure on the broken brigands to their fate: 
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do. 
To check the headlong fury of that crew; 
In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame. 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame; 
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 
And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade. 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 
The long privation of the hoped supply. 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The.stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art. 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart. 
Of these they had not deem'd; the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may. 
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife. 
And present death to hourly suffering life; 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His numbers melting fast from their array; 
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent; 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand. 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: 
Desperate, though few, the last and best re- 
main'd 
To mourn the discipline they lale disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
And thence they may escape from native war, 
And bear within them to the neighboring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: 
Hard is the task their fatherland to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 
XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless 

flight; 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly! — W^hat glitters in the rear? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight: 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil. 
Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer 

spoil ! 

XIII. 
A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their 

band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
It matters little — if they charge their foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose. 
Some few perchance may break and pass the 
However link'd to baffle such design. [line, 
** The charge be ours! t© wait for their assault 



296 



LARA. 



Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, reign'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the 

deed: 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath, 
How many shall but hear the voice of death! 

XIV. 

His blade is bared — in him there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear; 
Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight 

threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his; 
It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart; 
His eye alone proclaim'd, '* We will not part! 
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee; 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!" 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward 
driven, [riven; 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; 
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XV. 
Commanding, aiding, animating all. 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall. 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his 

steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were 

vain; 
But those that waver turn to smite again. 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow: 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own; [fly — 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed 

crest? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death had stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue; 
That hand, so raised, Ikjvv droopingly it hung! 



But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins. 
These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage; 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge 

again; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain! 

XVI. 
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth; 
And near, yet quivering withnvhat life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him, and the hand that 

rein'd; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to 

taste; 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause? — No further thirst have they to 

slake — 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not; 
It was an agony — but now forgot! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
His follower snce, and now his only guide. 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that 

rush 
With each convulsion in a blacker gush; 
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow; 
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis 
[And merely adds another throb to pain, [vain, 
He clasps the hand that pang which would as- 
I suage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
iWho nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor 
I sees, [knees : 

tSave that damp brow which rests upon his 
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though 

dim, 
; Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 



LARA, 



297 



The foe arrives, who long had search'd the 

field, [yield! 

Their triumph nought till Lara too should 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere 

vain. 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate: 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly 

clung. [known 

They spake of other scenes, but what — is 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement 

round: [last 

They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the 
To half forget the present in the past! [fate, 
To share between themselves some separate 
Whose darkness none beside should, penetrate. 

XIX. 
Their words, though faint, were many — from 

the tone [alone; 

Their import those who heard could judge 
From this, you might have deemed young 

Kaled's death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd 

hoarsely near; 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last. 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased. 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East; ' 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high; 
RoU'd back the clouds) the morrow caught 

his eye. 
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene 
That raised his arm to point where such had 

been. 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away. 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning 

light 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 



Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its 
loss; [cross, 

For when one near display'd the absolving 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 'twere with 

disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began — 
That life of Immortality, secure [sure. 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is 



But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
And dull the film along his dim eye grew: 
His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head 

droop'd o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
*< It beats!" — Away, thou dreamer, he is 

gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon, 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 
And those around have roused him from his 

trance. 
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance; 
And when, in raising him from where he bore 
Within his arms the form that felt no more. 
He saw the head his breast would still sustain 
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain. 
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell. 
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so 

well. 
Than that he lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath 
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe I 
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd; 
In baring to revive that lifeless breast. 
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd; 
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? 

XXII. 
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep; 



29S 



LARA. 



Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd 

the mound; 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for tlieir chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last; 
She told nor whence nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him? Curious fool — be 

still- 
Is human love the growth of human will? 
To her he might be gentleness: the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes 

discern; 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links that form'd the 

chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast. 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar. 
Which were not planted there in recent war: 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life. 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, [spilt; 
These only told that somewhere blood was 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoken the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale,* 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn. 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood. 
And hew the bough that bought his children's 

food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain: 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman 

broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow. 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's 

course. 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 

* See Notes at th« end of the volume. 



Heaved up the bank and dash'd it from the 
shore, [seem'd to watch, 

Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and 
And still another hurried glance would snatch. 
And follow with his step the stream that flow^'d. 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd: 
[At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
Thewinter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
I And slung them with a more than common 
I care. 

Meantime the Serf had crept to where, unseen. 
Himself might safely mark what this might 
I mean : 

He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest; 
I But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised; 
Then, turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
LI is face was mask'd — the features of the dead. 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; 
But if, in sooth, a star its bosom bore. 
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore. 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
LTpon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul I 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell, 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 



And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 
Alike without their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had 

been: 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not. 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints; 
And she would sit beneath the very tree, 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 
And slie had shr)rn, but saved her raven hair. 



i8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORImVTH. 



299 



And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,! From some imagined spectre in pursuit; 
And fold and press it gently to the ground, IThen seat her down upon some linden's root, 
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's! And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
wound. I Or trace strange characters along the sand. 

Herself would question, and for him reply; jThis could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 'Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
1816. 



TO 



JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY HIS 



January 22nd, 18 16. 



FRIEND. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

"The grand army of the Turks {in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all that country,* 
thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The garrison being 
weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley: but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they 
had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred men were killed; which 
so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, 
that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, with 
Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war." — History 0/ the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 



Ix\ the year since Jesus died for men,f 
Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
We were a gallant company. 
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
Oh! but we went merrily! [hill, 

We forded the river, and clomb the high 
Never our steeds for a day stood still; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed. 
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed: 
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 



* Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable 
place in the Morea, but'^ripolitza, where the Pacha re- 
sides and maintains his government. Napoli is near Ar- 1 
gos. I visited all three in i8io-ti; and in the course of 
journeying through the country from my first arrival in 
i8o^, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way from 
Attica to the Morea, over the mountains; or in the other 
direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that 
of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beauti- \ 
ful, though very diflTerent: that by sea has more same- 1 
ness; but the voyage being always within sight of land, j 
and often very near it, presents many attractive views of 
the islands Salamis, ^gina, Poros, &c., and the coast 
of the Continent. i 

t These lines to Section I. were omitted by Byron in 
the first editions of this poem. 



On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles 

spread 
As a pillow beneath the resting head. 
Fresh we woke upon the morrow: 

All our thoughts and words had scope. 
We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds; — 
Some were those who counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 
And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye searck, 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 
But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone. 
And some are rebels on the hills* 
That look along Epirus' valleys, 
Where freedom still at moments rallies, 

*[The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of 
the Amaouts who followed me) state him to be in revolt 
upon the mountains, at the head of some of the bands 
common in that country in times of trouble.] 



300 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



1816. 



And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home; 

But never more, oh! never, vt'e 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer. 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay. 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow? 

I. 

Many a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 

Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, [shock, 

The keystone of a land, which still. 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill. 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother bled,* 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank. 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below: 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise [skies. 

More mountain-like, through those clear 

Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 
On dun Cithseron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; 
And the dusk vSpahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance; 

*[Tiiiioleon killed his brother to save Corinth from be- 
ing cnsl ivccl by hiin. ilo tiad prcvion-ily -avc-d Timnph- 
anes' WUi in battle] 



And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels. 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,* 
The sabre round his loins to gird; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the canon 'g breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; 
And from that wall the foe replies. 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 

III. 
But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall. 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of bload. 
From post to post, and deed to deed. 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed. 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail, 
Or where the battery, guarded well. 
Remains as yet impregnable. 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fiie; 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
Or whirl around the bickering blade; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade! 

IV. 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gentle sires — he drew his birth; 

But late an exile from her shore. 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes. 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel. 

Within whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — *'the Free;" 

*The life of tlie I'urconiaus is wandering and patri- 
archal: they dwell in tents. 



i8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



301 



And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the ** Lion's mouth " had placed 
A charge against* him uneftaced: 
He fled in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife, 
That taught his land how great her loss 
In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 
And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumourgi — he whose closing scene* 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain. 
The last and mightiest of the slain. 
He sank, regretting not to die. 
But cursed the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway; 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot. 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb; 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven; 

* All Coumourgi, the favorite of three Sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering Pelopon- 
nesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mortally 
wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle 
of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), in Hungary, 
endeavoring to rally his guards. He died of his wounds 
next day. His last order was the decapitation of General 
Breimer, and some other German prisoners ; and his last 
"words, '* Oh, that I could thus serve all the Christian 
dogs !'* a speech and act not unlike one of Caligula. He 
was a young man of great ambition and unbounded pre- 
sumption : on being told that Prince Eugene, then op- 
Sosed to him, " was a great general," he said, *' I shall 
ecome a greater, and at his expense." 



Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun. 
Impervious to the hidden sun. 
With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 

But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach: 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire. 
Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name. 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time. 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall. 
He glitter'd through the Carnival; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

VIII. 

And many deem'd her heart was won; 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd: 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore. 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail. 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize : 
With listless look she seems to gaze: 
With humbler care her form arrays; 
Her voice less lively in the song; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 
Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers. 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece; 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
With him his gentle daughter came; 



I 



302 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



1816, 



Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; 
And with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed *' forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 
And win their way with falchion's force. 
Or pave the path with many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise. 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies! 



'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown 

The cold, round moon shines deeply down; 

Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 

Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 

Bespangled with those isles of light. 

So wildly, spiritually bright; 

Who ever gazed upon them shining 

And turn'd to earth without repining. 

Nor wish'd for wings to flee away. 

And mix with their eternal ray? 

The waves on either shore lay there 

Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 

But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 

The winds were pillow'd on the waves; 

The banners droop'd along their staves, 

And, as they fell around them furling, 

Above them shone the crescent curling; 

And that deep silence was unbroke. 

Save where the watch his signal spoke, , 

Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 

And echo answer'd from the hill. 

And the wide hum of that wild host 

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 

In midnight call to wonted prayer; 

It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 

'Twas musical, but sadly sweet. 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 

And take a long unmeasured tone. 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seem'd to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall; 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear. 



An undefined and sudden thrill. 
Which makes the heart a moment still. 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 

The watch was set, the night-round made, 

All mandates issued and obey'd: 

'Tis but another anxious night. 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay. 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter; but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

He stood alone among the host; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally: 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 

The stern exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 

W^hen battling on the parent soil. -y 

He stood alone — a renegade ^ 

Against the country he betray'd; -^ 

He stood alone amidst his band, 

Without a trusted heart or hand: 

They follow'd him, for he was brave. 

And great the spoil he got and gave; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will: 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name; 

Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop. 

When bafiled feelings withering droop; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first; 

So lions o'er the jackal sway; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey, 

Then on the vulgar yelling press. 

To gorge the relics of success. 



i8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH, 



303 



XIII. 
His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse: 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day. 
But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on. 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIV. 
He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm. 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; 
It will not melt, like man, to time: 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And linger'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh! still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token: 



But vain her voice, till better days 
j Dawn in those yet remember'd rays, 
i Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
I And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 



XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
And through this night, as on he wander'd. 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd. 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him. 
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban'd horde; 
And led them to the lawless siege, 
Whose best success was sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 
Their phalanx marshal! 'd on the plain. 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying; 
The very gale their names seem'd sighing: 
The waters murmur'd of their name; 
The woods were peopled with their fame; 
The silent pillar, lone and grey, 
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; 
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain: 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river, 
RoU'd mingling with their fame forever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is glory's still, and theirs! 
'Tis still a watchword to the earth: 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 



Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,* 
Which changeless rolls eternally; [mood, 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest 
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a 

rood; 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
Heedless if she come or go: 
Calm or high, in main or bay, 
On their course she hath no sway. 
The rock unworn its base doth bare. 
And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there; 



* The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
no percqptible tides in the Mediterranean. 



304 



THE -SIEGE OE COEJXTH. 



1816. 



And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, i 
On the line that it left long ages ago: ' 

A smooth short space of yellow sand | 

Between it and the greener land. ! 

He wander'd on, along the beach, ' 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach | 

Of the leaguer'd wall; but they saw him not, ' 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 
Did traitors lurk in the Christian's hold? 
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts, 
wax'd cold? | 

I know not, in sooth; but from yonder wall ; 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd noi 
ball, I 

Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown;; 
That flank'd the seaward gate of the town; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost 
The sullen words of the sentinel, [tell 

As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Mold o'er the dead their carnival. 
Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb; 
They were too busy to bark at him! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter 
skull,* [edge grew dull, 

As it slipp'd through their jaws when their 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they scarce could rise from the spot 

where they fed; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fall'n for that night's re- 
past, [the sand, 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on 
The foremost of these were the best of his 
l)and; [wear, 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of 
All the rest was shaven and bare. [hair,*)* 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, [gulf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 
Scared by the dogs from the human prey; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 



* This spectacle I have seen, such as described, be- 
neath the wall at the Seraplio at Constantinople, in the 
little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a nar- 
row terrace of which projects between the wall and the 
water. I think the fact is also mentioned in llobhouse's 
Travels. The bodies were probably those of some re- 
fractory Janizaries. 

t This tuft, or long lock. Is left from a superstition that 
Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it. 



Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing 

in vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, [lower; 
And Honor's eye on daring deeds! 
But wdien all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; [air, 
All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before! 

Out upon Time! who forever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which 

must be: 
What we have seen, our sons shall see; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 
XIX. 
He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
And pass'd his hand athwart his face; 
Like one in dreary musing mood. 
Declining was his attitude; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fever'd, throbbing, andopprest; 
And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
Oft his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 
Your own run over the ivory key, 
Ere the measured tone is taken 
By the chords you would awaken. 
There he sate all heavily. 
As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
Was it the wind, through some hollow 
Sent that soft and tender moan? [stone,* 



* 1 must here acknowledge a close though uninten- 
tional resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in 
an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called Christa- 
bel. It was not till after these lines were written that I 
heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful 
poem recited : and the MS. of that production I never 
jsaw till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge 
himself, who, 1 hope, is convinced that I have not been 
a wilful plagiarist. 



i8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



305 



He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 

But it was unrippled as glass may be; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not 

a blade; 
How was that gentle sound convey'd? 
He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill. 
And he felt not a breath come over his 

cheek; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak? 
He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers! what is here? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament?" 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine: 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw; he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace. 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride! 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: 
Where was the play of her soft lips fled? 
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 
The ocean's calm within their view, 
Beside her eye had less of blue; 
But like that cold wave it stood still. 
And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
Around her form a thin robe twining. 
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; 
Through the parting of her hair, 
Floating darkly downward there. 
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare. 
And ere yet she made reply. 
Once she raised her hand on high; 
It was so wan and transparent of hue, 
You might have seen the moon shine 
through. 

XXI. 
*< I come from my rest to him I love best. 
That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall; 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity: 
And the Power on high that can shield the good 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 



I come — and if I come in vain. 
Never, oh never, we meet again! 
Thou hast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy fathers' creed: 
But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and forever be mine; 
Wring the black drop from thy heart. 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

* * And where should our bridal-couch be spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead? 
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and 

flame 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
Shall be left upon the morn: 
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sor- 
row forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase 
Scourge, with the whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'dto the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart. 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold. 

He could not loose him from its hold: 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear. 

As those thin fingers, long and white, [night. 

Froze through his blood by their touch that 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone. 

As he look'd on the face and beheld its hue, 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's 

swell, [dwell: 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to 
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were 

fix'd, [mix'd 

And the glance that it gave was wild and un- 
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; 
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight j 



THE SIEGE OF CORIXTH. 



1816. 



* I have been told that the idea expressed in this and 
tl e five following lines has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not 
original — at least not mine; it may be found much better 
expressed in pages 182-184 of the English version of 
Vathek (I forget the precise page of the French), a work 
to which I have before referred; and never recur to, or 
read, without a renewal ofgratification. 



As they seem, through the dimness, about to 

come down 
P^rom the shadowy wall where their images 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, [frown; 

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

** If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then for the love of Heaven, — 

Again I say — that turban tear 

F^rom off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sons to spare. 

Or thou art lost; and never shalt see — 

Not earth — that's past — but heaven or me. 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 

That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within. 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of Him thou didst forsake; 

And look once more to heaven, and see 

Its love forever shut from thee. 

There is a light cloud by the moon* — 

'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 

If, by the time its vapory sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 

Thy heart within thee is not changed, 

Then God and man are both avenged; 

Dark will thy doom be, darker still 

Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky; 

But his heart was swoll'n,and turn'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

RoU'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid! 

He^ wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst! 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply; 

He watch'd it passing; it '.s flown: 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 

And thus he spake: *' Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 'tis too late: 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver. 

Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 



What Venice made me I must be. 
Her foe in all, save love to thee: 
But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!" 
He turn'd, but she is gone! . 
Nothing is there but the column stone. 
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 
He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is 
there. 

XXII. 
The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that morn were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The morning from her mantle grey, 
And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
Hark to the trump and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn. 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're 
borne, [hum, 

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's 
And the clash and the shout, *'They come, they 
come!" [and the sword 

The horsetails are pluck'd from the ground,* 
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait 

for the word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
When he breaks from the town; and none es- 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape; [cape, 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit: 
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before: 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post. 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls, 
God and the prophet — Alia Hu! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo! 
** There the breach lies for passage, the ladder 
to scale; [ye fail! 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish : let him ask it, and 
have!" 



* The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's standard 



i8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



307 



Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire! 



XXIII. 
As the wolves, that headlong go 
On the stately buffalo, 
Though with fiery eyes and angry roar, 
And hoofs that stamp and horns that gore. 
He tramples on earth, or tosses on high, 
The foremost, who rush on his strength but 
Thus against the wall they went, [to die; 
Thus the first were backward bent; 
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
Shiver'd by the shot that tore 
The ground whereon they moved no more : 
Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
When his work is done on the levell'd plain; 
Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash. 

From the cliffs invading dash [flow, 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless 

Till white and thundering down they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft-renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. [fell, 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they 

Heap'd by the host of the infidel. 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot: 

Nothing there, save death, was mute; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry. 

For quarter, or for victory. 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder. 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes. 

If with them, or for their foes; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice. 

In that annihilating voice, [through 

Which pierces the deep hills through and 

With an echo dre^d and new: 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to 

the hilt. 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; 
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 



And all but the after carnage done. 
Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
P'rom within the plunder'd dome: 
Hark to the haste of flying feet, . [street; 
That splash in the blood of the slippery 
But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
Against the foe may still be found. 
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
Make a pause, and turn again — 
With banded backs against the wall, 
Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man, his hairs were white. 
But his veteran arm was full of might: 
So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
The dead before him, on that day, 
In a semicircle lay: 
Still he combated unwounded, 
Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
Many a scar of former fight 
Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; 
But of every wound his body bore. 
Each and all had been ta'en before: 
Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
Few of our youth could cope with him; 
And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver grey. 
From right to left his sabre swept: 
Many an Othman mother wept 
Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
His weapon first in Moslem gore. 
Ere his years could count a score. 
Of all he might have been the sire 
Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
For, sonless left long years ago, 
His wrath made many a childless foe; 
And since the day, when in the strait* 
His only boy had met his fate. 
His parent's iron hand did doom 
More than a human hecatomb. 
If shades by carnage be appeased, 
Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
Buried he lay, where thousands before 
For thousands of years were inhumed on the 
What of them is left, to tell [shore; 

Where they lie, and how they fell? [graves; 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
XXVI. 
Hark to the Allah shout! a band [hand: 
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 



* In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
between the Venetians and the Turks* 



3oS 



THE SIEGE OE CORINTIL 



1816. 



Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known: 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 

Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 

Many a loftier turban may wear — 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare: 

Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there 1 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before; 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far; 

It glances like a falling star! 

Where'er that mighty arm is seen. 

The bravest be, or late have been; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yield a groan in dying; 

Mustering his last feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe. 

Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 

Grappling on the gory ground. 



Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
*' Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

"Never, renegado, never! 
Though the life of thy gift would last for- 
ever." 

" P'rancesca! — Oh, my promised bride! 
Must she too perish by thy pride?" 

'* She is safe." — "Where? where?" — *'In 

heaven; 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
Far from thee, and undefiled." 
Grimly then Minotti smiled. 
As he saw Alp staggering bow- 
Before his words as with a blow. 

"O God! when died she?" — '•'■ Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 

Come on!" — That challenge is in vain — 

Ally's already with the slain! 

Wiiile Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found. 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From within the neighboring porch 

Of a long-defended church, 



Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew. 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering. 

They turn'd him on his back: his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob; 

Sigh nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death; 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unaneled he pass'd away. 

Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 

To the last a Renegade. 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers and his foes; 

These in joy, in fury those: 

Then again in conflict mixing. 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust, 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot. 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command; 

With him, aiding heart and hand. 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable. 
Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell; 
Thither bending sternly back, 
They leave before a bloody track; 
And, with their faces to the foe, 
Dealing wounds with every blow, 
The chief, and his retreating train. 
Join to those within the fane; 
There they yet may breathe awhile, 
Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 
Brief breathing time! the turban'd host, 
With added ranks and raging boast, 
Press onwards witli such strength and heat, 
Their numbers hdW. their own retreat; 
For narrow the way that led to the spot 



t8i6. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



309 



Where still the Christians yielded not; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks. 

And now the Othmans gain the gate; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

P'rom every crevice comes the shot; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower; 

But the portal wavering grows, and weak, — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak; 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone; 
Madonna's face upon him shone, 
Painted in heavenly hues above, 
With eyes of light and looks of love; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her aisles. 
Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh. 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 
And still he stood, while with steel and flame. 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 
The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contain'd the dead of ages gone; 
Their names were on the graven floor. 
But now illegible with gore; 
The carved crests, and curious hues 
Their varied marble's veins diff"use, [strown 
Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and 
With broken swords, and helms o'er- 
thrown; [below 

There were dead above, and the dead 
Lay cold in many a cofiin'd row; 
You might see them piled in sable state, 
By a pale light through a gloomy grate; 
But War had enter'd their dark caves. 
And stored along the vaulted graves 
|ier sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 



In masses by the fleshless dead; 
Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine; 
To these a late-form'd train now led, 
Minotti's last and stern resource. 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 
The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain: 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head. 
And fell the statues from their niche, 
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich. 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
To the high altar on they go; 
Oh, but it made a glorious show! 
On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold: 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes; 
That morn it held the holy wine. 
Converted by Christ to His blood so divine. 
Which His worshippers drank at the break 

of day 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the 
Still a few drops within it lay; [fray. 

And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

vSo near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired! 
Spire, vaults, and shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down— 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent. 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore: 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there ]Delow; 



9^ 



3IO 



PARIShVA. 



I8i6. 



Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorched and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again. 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain; 
Down the ashes shower like rain; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received 

sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles: 
Some fell on the shore, but far away 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they? 
Let their mothers see and say! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child. 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: 
And down came blazing rafters, strewn 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay. 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 



the 



That deadly earth-shock disappear'd: 
The wild birds flew; the wild dugs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead; 
The camels from their keepers broke: 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein; 
The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,* 
Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe and beaten hound: 
With sudden wing and ruffled breast. 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun. 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun: 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won! 



* I believe I have taken a poetical licence to transplant 
the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have 
heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins and follow 



PARISINA.^ 

1816. 



TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ., 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS 

FRIENDSHIP. 

January 22nd , 18 16. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in ijibhon's Antiquities of the House 0/ 
Brunswick. I am aware that, in modern times, the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such sub- 
jects unfit for the purposes of poeiry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were 
of a different opinion: as Ailieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as 
more metrical: — 

" Under the reign of Nicholas TIL, Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony ofan at- 
tendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Elste discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisma and Hugo 
his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and 
husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if 
they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely ap- 
prove the last act of the justice of a parent." — Gibbon's MlsceUaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard; 

♦ Sec Note at the end of this volume. 



It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in evei*y whisper'd word; 
And gentle winds, and waters near, 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 



i8i6. 



PARISINA, 



3«i 



And in the sky the stars are met. 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day. 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.* 

II. 
But it is not to list to the waterfall 
That Parisina leaves her hall, 
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
That the lady walks in the shadow of night; 
And if she sits in Este's bower, 
'Tis not for the sake ofits full-blown flower: 
She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
Though her ears expect as soft a tale. 
There glides a step through the foliage 

thick, [beats quick. 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart 
There whispers a voice through the rustling 

leaves, [heaves : 

And her blush returns, and her bosom 
A moment more, and they shall meet; — 
'Tis past— her lover's at her feet. 

III. 
And what unto them is the world beside. 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things — its earth and sky- 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway: 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused, or fear'd, in such an hour? 
Or thought how brief such moments last? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 

IV. 

With many a lingering look they leave 
The spot of guilty gladness past; 

And though they hope and vow, they grieve. 
As if that parting were the last. 

The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 



* The lines contained in this section were printed as set 
to music some time since, but belonged to the poem where 
they now appear: the greater part of which was com- 
posed prior to " Lara." 



The lip that there would cling forever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart. 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 

To covet there another's bride; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams. 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away: 
And he to that embrace awakes. 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh and warm caress 
For such as he was wont to bless; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart. 

And listen'd to each broken word: 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start. 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard? 
And well he may — ra deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
When he shall wake to sleep no more. 
And stand the eternal thron« before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow, 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name? — 'tis Hugo's, — his— 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this! 
'Tis Hugo's — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth. 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth. 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 



v.. 



312 



PARISINA. 



1816. 



He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
But sheathed it ere the point was bare — 

Ilowe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping there — 

Nay more: — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance, 1 

Had frozen her sense to sleep again — | 

And o'er his brow the burning lamp | 

Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 

She spake no more — but still she slum- 
ber'd— 

While in his thoughts her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found. 
In many a tale from those around. 
The proof of all he fear'd to know. 
Their present guilt, his future woe; 
The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell; 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 
He was not one who brook'd delay: 

Within the chamber of his state. 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate. 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair; 
Both young — and 07ie how passing fair! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
O Christ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire. 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace! 
And yet he seems not overcome, 
Although as yet his voice be dumb. 

X. 
And still, and pale, and silently, 

Did Parisina wait her doom: 
How changed since last her speaking eye 
Glanced gladness round the glittering 
room, 
Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 
The graces of its queen: 



Then — had her eye in sorrow wept, 

A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 

A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 

And made her quarrel all their own. 

Now — what is she? and what are they? 

Can she command, or these obey? 

All silent and unheeding now, 

With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 

And folded arms, and freezing air, 

And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 

Her knights and dames, her court — is there: 

And he, the chosen one, whose lance 

Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 

Who — were his arm a moment free — 

Had died or gain'd her liberty; 

The minion of his father's bride, — 

He, too, is fetter'd by her side; 

Nor sees her swoll'n and full eyes swim 

Less for her own despair than him : 

Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 

Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 

Shining through the smoothest white 

That e'er did softest kiss invite — 

Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 

To press, not shade, the orbs below; 

Which glance so heavily, and fill, 

As tear on tear grows gathering still. 

XI. 

And he for her had also wept. 

But for the eyes that on him gazed: 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd; 
But yet he dared not look on her: 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And hers — oh, hers! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake: ** But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son; 
That dream this morning pass'd away: 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone: 
Well — let that pass — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done: 
Those tics are broken — not by me; 

Let that too pass; — the doom's prepared! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 

And then — thy crime's reward I 



i8i6. 



PARISINA, 



l^l 



Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
Before its evening stars are met — 

Learn if thou there canst be forgiven; 
Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 

But here, upon the earth beneath, 
There is no spot v^^here thou and I 

Together for an hour could breathe : 

Farewell! I will not see thee die — 

But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 
Away! I cannot speak the rest: 
Go! woman of the wanton breast; 

Not I, but thou his blood dost shed; 

Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, 

And joy thee in the life I give." 

XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again; 
And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
And pass'd his shaking hand along 
His eye to veil it from the throng; 
While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
And for a brief delay demands 
His father's ear : the silent sire 
Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that — not once a useless brand — 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine. 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot. 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 
Her offspring's heritage of shame: 
But she is in the grave, where he. 
Her son, the rival, soon shall be. 
Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
*Tis true that I have done thee wrong; 

But wrong for wrong: — this, deem'd thy 

The other victim of thy pride, [bride, 
Thou know'st for me was destined long; 
Thousaw'st, and covetedst her charms; 

And with thy very crime — my birth — 

Thou tauntedst me — as little worth; 
A match ignoble for her arms, 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name. 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne: 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 



My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught a crest* 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of '< Este and of Victory!" 
I will not plead the cause of crime, 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust; — 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not, and they did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base. 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face. 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart; 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou 
From thee in all their vigor came [start? — 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone. 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done! 
Repaid thee with too like a son! 
I am no bastard in my soul. 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control: 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st, and wilt resume so soon, 
I value it no more than thou. 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, all side by side, have striven. 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past; 
Yet would I that I then had died: 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still : 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same: 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worse to human view. 
But God must judge between us two!" 



* " Haught," haughty. "Away, haught man, thou 
art insulting m^." — Shakespeare, 



314 



PARISINA, 



1816 



He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd. 
When those dull chains in meeting 
Till Parisina's fatal charms [clank'd; 

Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still. 
The living cause of Hugo's ill: 
Her eyes unmov'd, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood. 
As ice were in her curdled blood: 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear! 
And those who saw, it did surprise 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within h?r swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in th'e tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak. 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone, 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting. 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 
But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
The erring arrow launch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
The past a blank, the future black, 
With glimpses of a dreary track, 
Like lightning on the desert path, 
When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
She fear'd— she felt that something ill 
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
That there was sin and shame she knew; 
That some one was to die — but who? 
She had forgotten: — did she breathe? 



Could this be still the earth beneath. 

The sky above, and men around; 

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream; 

For so it seem'd on her to break: 

Oh! vainly must she strive to wake! 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

Bttt mournfully and slow; 
In the grey square turret swinging. 

With a deep .sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go! 
Hark! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead belov/, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells 
He is near his mortal goal; [knoll: 

Kneeling at the friar's knee; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards 

around — 
And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady. 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew: 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the 
Father. 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Which rose upon that heavy day. 

And mock'd it with its steadiest ray; 

And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen — 

And the rings of chestnut hair 

Curl'd half down his neck so bare; 

But brighter still the beam was thrown 

Upon the axe which near him shone 



1 



i8i6. 



PARISINA, 



315 



With a clear and ghastly glitter — 
Oh! that parting hour was bitter! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe; 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 



The parting prayers are said and over 
Of that false son — and daring lover! 
His beads and sins are all recounted, 
His hours to their last minute mounted — 
His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 
His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd : 
'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
The vest which till this moment worn — 
The scarf which Parisina gave — 
Must not adorn him to the grave. 
Even that must now be thrown aside, 
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied; 
But no — that last indignity 
Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
All feelings seemingly subdued, 
In deep disdain were half renevv'd 
When headsman's hands prepared to bind 
Those eyes which would not brook such 

blind, 
As if they dared not look on death. 
«< No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
These hands are chain'd, but let me die 
At least with an unshackled eye — 
Strike!" — And as the word he said. 
Upon the block he bow'd his head; 
These the last accents Hugo spoke: 
** Strike!" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 
In the dust, which each deep vein 
Slaked with its ensanguined rain : 
His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
Convulsed and quick — then fix forever. 

He died, as erring man should die. 
Without display, without parade; 
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd. 
As not disdaining priestly aid. 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling. 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach — no more despair; 
No thought but heaven — no word but 

prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke. 
When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke. 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound. 
His sol^ adieu to those around. 



Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath: 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran. 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended; 

And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
Beyond the blow that to the block [shock, 
Pierced through with forced and sullen 

Save one: — What cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child 

Done to death by sudden blow. 

To the sky these accents go. 

Like a soul in endless woe. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon; 

But sound and sight alike are gone! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair; 

And those who heard it, as it pass'd. 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 



Hugo is fallen; and from that hour. 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen: 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear. 

Like words of wantonness or fear: 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son. 

No tomb — no memory had they; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid: 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreaiy road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feel; 

Or if upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote. 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headsman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came. 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame. 

None knew — and none can ever know: 

But whatsoe'er its end below. 

Her life began and closed in woe. 



1i 



3i6 



THE PRISOXER OF CHILL OX. 



1816. 



XX, 

And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side: 

But none so lovely and so ])rave 

As him who wither'd in the grave. 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended. 

And never smile his brow unbended; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought:^ 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or woe; 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which, when it least appear'd to melt. 

Intently thought — intensely felt: 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 



By thoughts which Nature had implanted: 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Ilowe'er our stifled tears we banish. 
When, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart, 
They are not dried — those tears unshed, 
But flow back to the fountain-head. 
And resting in their spring more pure. 
Forever in its depth endure, 
i Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 
' And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
W^ith inward starts of feeling left. 
To throb o'er those of life bereft; 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness share; 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free: 
But if the lightning in its wrath 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



1816. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 

Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart— 
The heart which love of thee alone. can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



When this poem was composed, I was not sufiicicntly aware of the hbtory of Bonnivard, or I should have 
endeavored to dignify the subject by a:i attempt to cele^rat .; \\\\ courage and his virtues. With some account of 
his life 1 have been furnished, by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, winch is still proud of the niemory of 
^ man worthy of the best aqe of ancient freedom; — 



i8i6. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



317 



" Frangois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de I^unes, naquit en 
1496. 11 fit ses etudes a Turin: en 1510 Jean Aime de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Victor, 
qui aboutissait aux murs de Geneve, et qui formait un benefice considerable. 

" Ce grand homme — (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la force de son ame, la droiture de son coeur, la noblesse 
de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses demarches, I'etcndue de ses connaissances, et la 
vivacite de son esprit),— ce grand homme, qui excitera I'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut 
encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les ccEurs dcs Genevois qui aiment Geneve. 
Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plusfermes appuis : pour assurer la liberte de notre Republique, il ne craignit 
pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; il ne negligea rien pour affermir le 
bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son choix: des ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele de ses citoyens ; il 
la servit avec I'intrepidite d'un heros, et il ecrivit son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur 
d'un patriote. 

"II dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Geneve, que, des qu'il eut commend de lire V histoire 
des nations, il se sentit entraind par son goM pour les RepubUqucs, dont il ^pousa toujours les intdrets: 
c'est ce gout pour la liberte qui lui fit sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 

"Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonga hautement comme le defenseur de Geneve centre le Due de Savoye et 
I'Eveque. 

" En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie. Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq 
cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due ; il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; 
mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnaient, et conduit par ordre du Prince k Grolee, oil il resta pris- 
onnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux dans ses voyages : comme ses malheurs n'avaient point 
ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la menagaient, et par conse- 
quent il devait etre expose a leurs coups. II fut rencontre en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le depouille- 
rent et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le Chateau de 
Chillon, oil il regta sans etre interroge jusques en 1536 ; il fut alors delivre par les Bemois, qui s'emparerent du 
Pays de Vaud. 

*' Bonnivard, en sortant de sa eaptivite, eut le plaisir de trouver Geneve libre et reformee : la Republique 
s'empressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dedommager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts ; elle le regut 
Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin, 1536 ; elle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et 
elle lui assigna une pension de deux cent ecus d'or tant qu'il sejournerait a Geneve. II fut admis dans le Conseil 
de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

" Bonnivard n'apas fini d'etre utile : apr6s avoir travaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit k la rendre toler- 
■ ante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffisant pour exam- 
iner les propositions qu'on leur faisait ; il reussit par sa douceur : on preche toujours le Christianisme avec succfes 
quand on le preche avee charite. 

" Bonnivard fut savant: ses manuscr\J;s, qui sont dans la bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu les 
auteurs classiques Latins, et qu'il avait approfondi la theologie et Thistoirc. C2 grand homme aimait les sciences, 
et il croyait qu'elles pouvaient fatre la gloire de Geneve ; aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville 
naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre bibliotheque publique ; 
et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, 
pendant la meme annee, ce bon patriote institua la Republique son heritiere, a condition qu'elle employerait ses 
biens aentretenir le college dont on projettait la fondation. 

" II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on ne peut I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une laeune dans le Ne- 
crologe depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571. 



My hair is grey, but not with years; 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night,* 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My Umbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death: 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 



*Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI., though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the 
same effect; to such, and not to fear, this change in hers 
was to be attributed. 



We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd; 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left: 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp: 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 



3i8 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL OiY. 



1816. 



And in each ring there is a chain; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 
They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet each alone; 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight: 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
'Twas still some solace in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be: 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved. 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 

And thus he was as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills. 
And then they fiow'd like mountain rills, 



Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy — but not in chains to pine: 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,* 

Which round about the wave enthralls: 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 
And I have felt the w^inter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were 
And wanton in the happy sky; [high 

And then the very rock hath rock'd. 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 



* The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 
and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerieand the 
range of Alps above Boveretand St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, wash- 
ing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 
Zoo feet (French measure) ; within it are a range of dun- 
geons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently 
prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the 
vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were in- 
formed that the condemned were formerly executed. In 
the cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, one being 
half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings for 
the fetters and the fettered. In the pavement, the steps 
of Bonnivard have left their traces. He was confined 
here several years. 

It is by this casde that Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
trophe of his Helolse, in the rescue of one of her children 
by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and the 
illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her 
death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a 
great distance. The walls arc white. 



t k;j 



m 




' He died— and th>'y unlocked his chain. 
And snnH'd for him a shalltnv gra-<t\ 
Even from the cold earth of our cave.'' 

The Pkisonkk 



)F C HIM ON. St. vli. 



i8i6. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, 



319 



Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food: 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunters' fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years. 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den; 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free-breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his free-born breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument! 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He^ too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

O God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 



In any shape, in any mood: — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoll'n convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread: 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such, — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender, — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot! 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him; — I found him not; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last, — the sole, — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe: 

I took that hand which lay so still; 

Alas, my own was full as chill; 

I had not strength to stir or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die; 
I had no earthly hope — but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew;-^ 



320 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL ON, 



1816. 



First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too: 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, 
It was not night — it was not day; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness, without a place: 
There were no stars, — no earth, — no time. 
No check, — no change, — no good, — no 
But silence, and a stirless breath [crime. 
Which neither was of life nor death; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 



A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard; 
And mine was thankful, till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azAire wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; [while 

For — Heaven forgive that thought! the 
Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 



My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew. 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone, — as the corse within its shroud; 
Lone, — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate: 
I know not what had made them so. 
They were inured to sights of woe; 
But so it was — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain. 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part; 
And round the pillars one by one. 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod. 
My brothers' graves without a sod; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick. 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human shape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me: 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery; 
I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high. 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below. 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 



i8i7. 



BEPPO. 



321 



And whiter sails go skimming down; 
And then there was a little isle,* 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view : 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor; 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers grow- 
ing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous, each and all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 
And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load; 
It was as is a new -dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save — 



* Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one 
I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, 
within its circumference. It contains a few trees ( I think 
not above three), and from its singleness and diminutive 
size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 



And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



It might be months, or years, or days, 

. I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus, when they appear'd at last. 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home: 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



BEPPO: 
A VENETIAN STORY. 
1817. 



Ill 



Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of 
your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you 
are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a Gondola.— As You Like It, Act IV., Scene I. 

Annotation o/the Commentators. 
That is, been at Venice^ which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was 
then what Paris \& now—the seat of all dissoluteness.— S. A. 



I. I However high their rank, or low their sta- 

Tis known, at least it should be, that through- ' tion, [masking, 

out I With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking. 

All countries of the Catholic persuasion. 
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes 
about. 

The people take their fill of recreation. 
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 



11 i<.iX iXV-l^VAiXli^, X^»*Ol.XlX^, ^^XX>,XXX^, ^ '-*-t,> 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 
The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies (and the more duskily the better). 
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 



BEPPO. 



1817. 



Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; 
And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

(iiggling with all the gallants who beset her: 
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, 

humming, 
G iiitars, and every other sort of strumming. 



And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and 
Jews, [nastical. 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gym- 
Clreeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hin- 
doos; 
All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 

All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. 
But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy — 
Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge 
ye. 

IV. 

You'd better w^alk about begirt with briars. 
Instead of coat and small clothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
Although you swore it only was in fun; 

They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 

Nor say one mass, to cool the cauldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them 
double. 



But saving this, you may put on whatever 
You like by way of doublet, cape or cloak. 

Such as in Monmouth Street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke; 

And even in Italy such places are. 

With prettier names in softer accents spoke; 

For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's called ** Piazza" in Great 
Britain. 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies *' farewell to flesh:" 

So call'd, because the name and thing agree- 
ing, [fresh. 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting. 

In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill -dressed fishes, 
Uecause they have no sauces for their stews; 



A thing which causes many *' poohs " and 
*' pishes," [Muse), 

And several oaths (which would not suit the 
From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy; 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

'*The curious in fish-sauce," before they 
cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss) 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, [ye: 
Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do. 

According to the proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast: and you, 

If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 

But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 

Was most facetious in the days of yore. 

For dance and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, [more 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix my story, 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet ex- 
pressions still; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's 

(The best's at Florence — see it, if you will). 

They look when leaning over the balcony. 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty a/ their best; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go. 
That picture (howsoever fine the restj 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show; 
It may perhaps be also \o your zest. 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so: 
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self; but such a woman! love in lifel 



i8i7. 



BEPPO. 



323 



XIII. 
Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 
But something better still, so very real, [same: 

That the sweet model must have been the 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 

Were't not impossible, besides a shame: 
The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain. 
You once have seen, but ne'er will see again; 

XIV. 

One ofthose forms which flit by us, when we 

Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; 
And oh! the loveliness at times we see 

In momentary gliding, the soft grace. 
The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. 

In many a nameless being we retrace, 
Whose course and home v/e knew not, nor 

shall know, 
Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.* 

XV. 
I said that like a picture by Giorgione 

Venetian women were, and so they are^ 
Particularly seen from a balcony 

(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar), 
And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar; 
And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 
And rather like to show it, more's the pity! 
XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. 
Sighs wishes, wishes words,and words a letter, 

Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries 

Who do such things because they know no 

better; 

And then, God knows what mischief may arise. 
When love links two young people in one 
fetter. 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, [heads 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a ** cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 
Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether. 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather. 



* Quae septem dici sex tamen esse solent. — Ovid. 



But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's. 
XIX. 

Didst ever see a Gondola? For fear 

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly: 
'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, 

Carved at the prow, built lightly, but com- 
pactly, 
Row'dbytwo rowers, each call'd** Gondolier," 

It glides along the water looking blackly. 
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe. 
Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 
And up and down the long canals they go. 

And under the Rialto shoot along. 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow — 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 

But not to them do woeful things belong. 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's 
done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 

The Carnival was at its height, and so 
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; 

A certain lady went to see the show. 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we'll call her Laura, if you please. 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 
She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 

W^hich certain people call a <* certain age,^"* 
Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 

Because I never heard, nor could engage 
A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 

To name, define by speech, or write on page. 
The period meant precisely by that word, — 
Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 
Laura was blooming still, had made the best 

Of time, and time return'd the compliment. 
And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd. 

She look'd extremely well where'er she went; 
A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; 
Indeed, she shone all smiles, and seem'd \i 

flatter 
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 
She was a married woman: 'tis convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 



324 



BEPPO. 



1817. 



To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; 

Whereas, if single ladies play the fool 
(Unless within the period intervenient [cool), 

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal 
I don't know how they ever can get over it, 
Except they manage never to discover it. 
XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas. 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 

His wife would mount at times her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with 

He was a merchant, trading to Aleppo, [ease : 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; 

Though color'd, as it were, within a tanyard. 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard; 
And she, although her manners show'd no 
rigor, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and 
some 
That he had somehow blundered into debt, 

And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XX VIII. 
'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic. 

As partings often are, or ought to be. 
And their presentiment was quite prophetic. 

That they should never more each other see, 
(A sort of morbid feeling half poetic. 

Which I have known occur in two or three,) 
When kneeling on tlie shore upon her sad knee. 
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little. 
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she 

She almost lost all appetite for victual, [might; 
And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters 
brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiejly io protect her. 



XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not 
choose. 

If only you will but oppose their choice?) 
Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 

And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
A man some women like, and yet abuse — 

A coxcomb was he by the public voice; 
A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and 

The last not easy, be it known to you, [Tuscan; 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too. 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura !" 

XXXII. 
His ** bravo " was decisive, for that sound 

Hush'd ** Academic " sigh'd in silent awe; 
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 

For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 
The ** prima donna's " tuneful heart would 
bound, 

Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah !" 
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay,could himself extemporize some stanzas. 

Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a 
story. 
Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as j 

Italians can be, though in this their glory « 

Must surely yield the palm to that which 
France has: 

In short, he was a perfect cavaliero. 

And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. j| 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous; ^ 
So that no sort of female could complain. 

Although they're now and then a little clamor- 
He never put the pretty souls in pain; [ous. 

His heart was one of those which most en- 
amor us. 
Wax to receive, and marble to retain: 

He was a lover of the good old school, 

Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady— 



i8i7. 



BEFFO. 



325 



With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent nor wrote,nor show'd the least concern , 
And she had waited several years already; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's dead^ or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin) 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common. 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A second marriage, which corrupts theyfrj-/. 
XXXVII, 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; 

The Spaniards call the person a ^^ Cortejo,^^"^ 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 
recent; 

In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent : 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such 
courses! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 

To the fair single part of the creation. 
That married ladies should preserve the pre- 
ference 

In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease. 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 
'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming. 

But shy and awkward at first coming out. 
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 

All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness and half 

Pout; [in 

And glancing at Matmna, for fear there's harm 

What you, she, it, or they may be about. 
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But " Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
The supernumerary slave, who stays 



* Cortejo is pronounced Q,oxX.&ho, with an aspirate, 
according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what 
there is as yet no precise name for m England, though 
the practice is as common as in any tramontane country 
whatever. 



Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call. 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, [tree 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapped about 

Because the skies are not the most secure; 
I know, too, that if stopp'd upon my route, 

Where the green alleys windingly allure. 
Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the 

way, — 
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sor- 
row, [break as 
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will 
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to 
borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glim- 
mers [mers. 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron sim- 
XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
With syllables which breathe of the sweet 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, [South, 
That not a single accent seems uncouth, 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting 
guttural, [ter all. 

Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sput- 

XLV. 

I like the women too (forgive my folly), 
From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 



326 



BEPPO. 



1817. 



XLVI. 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise! 

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of lieaven, or can desire, 
Inwhathehathbequeath'dus? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would luords describe thy past and present 
While yet Canova can create below?* [glow, 

XL VII. 
"■ England! with all thy faults I love thee still," 

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; 

I like the government (but that is not it); 
I like the freedom of the press and quill; 

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got 
I like a parliamentary debate, [it) ; 

Particularly when 'tis not too late; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they're not too many; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; 
I like a beefsteak, too, as well as any; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every year; 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and 

King! 
W^hich means that I like all and everything. 
XLIX. 

Our standing army and disbanded seamen. 

Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's 
debt. 
Our little riots just to show we are free men. 

Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 

All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L. 
But to my tale of Laura — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 

And therefore may the reader too displease— 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind. 

And caring little for the author's ease. 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 



♦Note in Edition of 1820: — 
In talking thus, the writer, more especially 

Of women would be understood to say. 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 

And always, reader, in a modest way; 
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay, 
Since, as all know, without the sex our sonnets 
Would seem unfinikh'd like their untrimm'd bonnets. 
^Signed) Printer s devil. 



Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! Could I scale 
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 

Those pretty poems never known to fail. 
How quickly would I print (the world de- 
lighting) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; [ism, 
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimental- 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels). 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling 
verse on. 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on. 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils: 

I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 

•But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new ar- 
rangement, [do. 

Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes 
For half a dozen years \Vithout estrangement; 

They had their little differences, too; [meant: 
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change 

In such affairs there probably are few [ble. 
Who have not had this pouting sort of squab- 
From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But, on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
As happy as unlawful love could make them; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while 
to break them: 

The world beheld them with indulgent air; 
The pious only wish'd *' the devil take 

He took them not; he very often waits, [them:" 

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LV. 

But they were young : Oh ! what without our 
youth [out love! 

Would love be ! — What would youth be with- 
Youth lends itjoy, and sweetness, vigor, truth. 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from 
above; 
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 

One of few things experience don't improve, 
Which is perhaps the reason why old fellows 
Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 



I 



i8i7. 



BEPPO. 



3V 



Laura the usual preparations made, [go 

Which you do when your mind's made up to 

To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
Spectator, or partaker in the show; 

The only difference known between the cases, 

Is — here^ we have six weeks of <*varnish'd 
faces." 

LVII. 

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 
A pretty woman as was ever seen, 

Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door. 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, [wore, I 

With all the fashions which the last month 
Color'd and silver paper leaved between j 

That and the title page, for fear the press | 

Should soil with parts of speech the parts of 
dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto;^ — 'tis a hall [again; 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance 
Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball : 

But that's of no importance to my strain. 
'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 

Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain; 
The company is "mix'd " (the phrase I quote is 
As much assaying, they're below your notice); 

LIX. 

For a ** mix'd company " implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a hundred 
more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score [but I, 

Of well-bred persons, call'd '•'■ The World;'''' 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 



Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
The more I should believe in her divinity. 



This is the case in England; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies, now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated imitators — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas! 

The demagogues of fashion: all below 

Is frail; how easily the world is lost 

By love, or war, and now and then by frost! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Whoknock'd his army down with icy ham- 
mer, 
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French 
grammar ; 
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war. 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 



She rules the present, past, andall to be yet. 
She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and 
marriage; 
I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall 
•see yet [carriage; 

How much she'll make amends for past mis- 
Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune, 
Unless to thank her when she's made my for- 
tune. 

LXIII. 

To turn — and to return; — the devil take it. 
This story slips forever through my fingers. 

Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 
It needs must be — and so it rather lingers; 

This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 
But must keep time and tune like public 
singers; 

But if I once get through my present measure, 

I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 
Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
May lurk beneath each mask; and as my* 
sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behii*^" 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud, 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaip- 
avow'd. 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sipsj 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities sti^* 

Her dearest friends for being dress'd so il 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint. 
A third — where did she buy that frigbtfui 
turban? [faint 

A fourth's so pale, she fears she's going to 
A fifth looks vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban 
A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be h*'' 
bane, 



32^ 



BEPPO. 



1817. 



And lo! an eighth appears — I'll see no more! 
For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of 
praising, 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still — but men are so debased. 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 
For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
A thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see why it should be thus; 
And if I were but in a gown and band, 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my 
homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, 

Talking, she knew not why, and cared not 
what. 
So that her female friends, with envy broiling,! 

Beheld her airs, and triumphs, and all that; 

And well-dress'd males still kept before her 

filing, [chat; 

And passing bow'd and mingled with her, 
More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 
lie was a Turk, the color of mahogany; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny. 

Although their usage of their wives is sad; 
'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad; 
They have a number, though they ne'er ex- 
hibit 'em. 
Four wives by law, and concubines ad libiiiun. 



They lock them up, and veil, and guard them 
daily, [tions, ' 

They scarcely can behold their male rela- 
So that their moments do not pass so gaily 1 

As is supposed the case with northern! 

nations; [palely;! 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite' 

And as the Turks al^Jioi- long conversations,, 
Their tlays arc cither j^ass'd in doing nothing,! 
Or bathing, nursing,making love, and clothing.; 



LXXII. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
Xor write, and so they don't affect the muse; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
Have no romances, sermons, plays, re- 
views, — [schism, 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty 
But luckily these beauties are no ** Blues;" 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
** That charming passage in the last new- 
poem. " 

LXXIIl. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who, having angled all his life for fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time. 

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small '' Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 

The approving ** Good l^"* (by no means 
GOOD in law). 

Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 

Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 

Translating tongues he knows not even by 
letter, [better. 

And sweating plays so middling, bad were 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author , fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink. 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 
One don't know^ what to say to them, or 
think, 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, [taper. 

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight 

LXX VI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others. 
Men of the world, who know the world like 
men, [ers, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better broth- 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the **mighty mothers," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily ** tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The })oor dear Mussulwomen whom 1 nuii- 

tion, [P^^'j 

Have none of these instructive pleasant peo- 



i8i7. 



BEPFO. 



329 



And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple : 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pen- 
sion [ill) 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 

No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose; 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire. 

And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though 
laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and 
Water! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, j 

Abominable Man no more allays I 

His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, I 

I love you both, and both shall have my 
praise: 

Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy! 

Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her. 

Less in the Mussulman than Christian way. 

Which seems to say, **Madam, I do you honor. 

And while I please to stare, you'll please to 

stay;" 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her. 

But Laura could not thus be led astray; 
She had stood fire too long and well, to 

boggle 
Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of break- 
A turn of time at which I would advise [ing 

Ladies who have been dancing or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise. 



To make their preparations for forsaking 

The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 
Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 

I've seen some balls and revels in my time. 
And stay'd them over for some silly reason. 

And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
To see what lady best stood out the season; 

And though I've seen some thousands in their 
prime, [please on, 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the 
dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 
Although I might, for she was nought to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see; 

But writing names would merit reprehension ; 
Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 

At the next London or Parisian ball, [all. 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming 



LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 
Among three thousand people at a ball. 

To make her curtsy thought it right and 
I fitting; 

I The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
I And they the room were on the point of 

quitting. 
When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 
Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, 
hauling. 
With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 

They make a never intermitted bawling. 
At home, our Bow Street gemmen keep 
the laws, % 

And here a sentry stands within your calling; 
But for all that there is a deal of swearing. 
And nauseous words past mentioning or 
bearing. 

LXXXVII. 
The Count and Laura found their boat at last. 

And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 
Discussing all the dances gone and past; 
I The dancers and their dresses too, beside; 
I Some little scandals eke: but all aghast 
I (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 



33^ 



BEPPO. 



1817. 



Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIII. 

** Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding 
grave, 

** Your unexpected presence here will make 
It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; 
I hope it is so; and at once to waive 

All compliment, I hope so iox your sake: 
You understand my meaning, or you shall.''^ 
** Sir," quoth the Turk, *' 'tis no mistake at all; 

LXXXIX. 

That lady is my wifeP'' Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright; 

They only call a little on their saints, 
And then come to themselves,almost or quite; 

\Vhich saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprink 
ling faces. 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 



** Beppo,that beard ofyours becomes you not; 
It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot — 
Pray, don't you think the weather here is 
colder? 
How do Hook? You shan't stir from this spot 
In that queer dress, for fear that some be- 
holder 
Should find you out and make the story known. 
How short your hair is! Lord! how grey it's 
grown!" 

XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

About where Troy stood once, and nothing 
stands; 
Became a slave of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay. 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd,and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 



She said — what could she say? Why, not a 
word : 

But the Count courteously invited in [heard : 
The stranger, much appeased by what he 

** Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss 
within," 
Said he : ** don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public by a scene, nor raise a din. 
For then the chief and only satisfaction [tion." 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transac- 

XCI. 

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 

Although the way they make it's not the same. 
Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 

To speak, cries, ** Beppo! what's your pagan 
name? 
Bless n^! your beard is of amazing growth! 

And how came you to keep away so long? 

Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong? 

XCII. 

** And are you really y truly ^ now a Turk? 

With any other woman did you wive? 
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork? 

Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive ! 
You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me! Did I ever? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow! How's your liver ?J 



But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

He thought himself in duty bound to do so. 
And not be always thieving on the main; 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacco, 

Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with 
tobacco. 



Himself, and much (Heaven knows how got- 
ten!) cash. 

He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb, 
And got clear off,although the attempt was rash. 

He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing — lest we clash 

In our opinions; — well, the ship was trim. 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn, 

XCVII. 

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his 
lading. 

And self and live stock, to another bottom, 
And pass'd for a true Turkey- merchant, trading 

With goods of various names, but I've for- 
got 'em. 
However, he got off by this evading, [him; 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot 
And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 



I 



MAZEPPA. 



Zl^ 



XCVIII. 
His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized 
him, 
(He made the church a present, by the way) : 
He then threw off the garments which dis- 
guised him, [day: 
And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a 
His friends the more for his long absence 
prized him. 
Poinding he'd wherewithal to make them gay. 
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of 
them, [them. 
For stories — but / don't believe the half of 



xcix. 
youth had 



suffer'd, his old 



Whate'er his 
age 
With wealth and talking made him some 
amends : 
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
I've heard the Count and he were always 
friends. 
My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which, being finish 'd, here the story 
ends ; 
'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



MAZEPPA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" Celui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 

f>alatinat de Podolie: il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des beiles- 
ettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decouverte, 
le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de 
rUkraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : 
il resta longtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lumi- 
eres Jui donna une grande consideration parmi les Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le 
Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XIL p. 196. 

" I^e roi fjyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sang, 
lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, dans sa fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant 
le batailie." — Ibid. p. 216. 

*' Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la marche ; 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage ne pou- 
vant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, 
son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre surpris a 
tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de tons cotes." — Ibid. p. 218. 



'TwAS after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter'd army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again. 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year. 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name;* 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 



Such was the hazard of the die; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night, through field and flood, 



Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid: 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour. 

When truth had nought to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
x\ king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
P'or which the nations strain their strength? 
They lay him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony; [stark — 

His wounds were stiff — his limbs were 
The heavy hour was chill and dark; 
The fever in his blood forbade 



MAZEPPA. 



A transient slumber's fitful aid; 
And thus it was; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will: 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 
A band of chiefs! — alas, how few. 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous: upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold; 
But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed. 

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 

And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his 
And joy'd to see how well he fed; [rein, 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board; 
But spirited and docile too, 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb. 
All Tartar-like he carried him; 
Obey'd his voice, and came at call, 
And knew him in the midst of all: 
Though thousands were around — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak. 
And laid his lance beneath his oak. 
Felt if his arms in order good 
The long day's march had well withstood — 
If still the powder fill'd the pan. 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
And whether they had chafed his belt; — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can. 

Prepared and spread his slender stock; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion (jffcr'd then, 
Wilh far less of incpiielude 



Than courtiers at a banquet would. 

And Charles of this his slender share 

With smiles partook a moment there, 

To force of cheer a greater show. 

And seem above both wounds and woe; — 

And then he said — '' Of all our band, 

Though firm of heart and strong of hand. 

In skirmish, march, or forage, none 

Can less have said or more have done 

Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 

So fit a pair had never birth. 

Since Alexander's days till now, 

As thy Bucephalus and thou; 

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield, 

For pricking on o'er flood and field." 

Mazeppa answer'd, — " 111 betide 

The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" [so. 

Quoth Charles, — "Old Hetman, wherefore 

Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?" 

Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell; 

And we have many a league to go. 

With every now and then a blow. 

And ten to one at least the foe. 

Before our steeds may graze at ease 

Beyond the swift Borysthenes: 

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 

And I will be the sentinel 

Of this your troop." — '* But I request," 

Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 

This tale of thine, and I may reap, 

Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; 

For at this moment from my eyes 

The hope of present slumber flies." 

** W^ell, sire, with such a hope I'll track 

My seventy years of memory back : 

I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 

Ay, 'twas — when Casimir was king — 

John Casimir, — I was his page 

Six summers in my earlier age: 

A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 

And most unlike your Majesty: 

He made no wars, and did not gain 

New realms to lose them back again; 

And (save debates in Warsaw's Diet) 

He reign'd in most unseemly quiet: 

Not that he had no cares to vex; 

He loved the muses and the sex: 

And sometimes these so fro ward are. 

They made him wish himself at war; 

l^ut soon his wrath being o'er, he took 

Another mistress, or new book: 

And then he gave prodigious fetes — 

All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 

To gaze upon his si)]cndi(l court. 

And dames, and chiefs, of princely port; 

He was the Polish Solomon, 



MAZEPPA. 



33J 



So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
^nd boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes '* Despairing Thyrsis." 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine:* 
And he was proud, ye may divine. 

As if from heaven he had been sent: 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost look'd like want of head. 

He thought their merits were his own. 
'His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
'. Grew daily tired of his dominion. 

And after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
Ac W^arsaw's youth, some songs, and dances. 
Awaited but the usual chances. 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender. 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 



" I was a goodly stripling then: 

At seventy years I so may say. 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day. 
Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port, not liki to this ye see. 
But smooth, as all is rugged now; 

For time> and care, and war have plough'd 
My very sori from out my brow; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin., could they 
Compare my day and yesterday. 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind. 
Or at this hour I should not be 



* This comparison of a *' salt mine " may, perhaps, be 
)ermitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country con- 1 
fets greatly in the salt mines. 



Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
With starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now. 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough. 

The memory is so quick and warm; 
And yet I hnd no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well: 
She had the Asiatic eye. 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky; 
But through it stole a tender light. 
Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high. 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake. 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed? 

I loved her then — I love her still; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
W'ith the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI. 
** We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd; 
She did not speak, and yet replied; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 
We hear and see, but none defines — 
Involuntary sparks of thought, 
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 
And form a strange intelligence, 
Alike mysterious and intense, 
Which link the burning chain that binds, 
Without their will, young hearts and minds. 
Conveying, as the electric wire. 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wej^t. 
And still reluctant distance kept. 
Until I was made known to her. 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again. 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play. 

Wherewith we while away the day; 



334 



MAZEPPA, 



It is — 1 have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget: 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well!) 

Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain : but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. [pass. 

Then through my brain the thought did 
Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth. 
But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 



" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain; 
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather ijas — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost 
But could not o'er myself evince [bleed; 
The like control. — But to resume: 
I loved and was beloved again; 
In sooth it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 
No other like itself — I'd give 
The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more, and be a page. 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealtli 



Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 
We met in secret — doubly sweet. 
Some say, they find it so to meet; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII. 

** For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us; — the devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 

The devil! — I'm loth to do him wrong; 
It might be some untoward saint 

Who would not be at rest too long, 
But to his pious bile give vent — 

But one fair night, some lurking spies 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The Count was something more than wroth — 

I was unarm'd; but if in steel. 

All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 

W^hat 'gainst their numbers could I do, — 

'Twas near his castle, far away 
From city or from succor near, 

And almost on the break of day; 

I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few; 

And with one prayer to Mai-y Mother, 
And it may be a saint or two. 

As I resign'd me to my fate, 

They led me to the castle gate: 
Theresa's doom I never knew. 

Our lot was henceforth separate, — 

An angry man, ye may opine. 

Was he, the proud Count Palatine; 

And he had reason good to be, 
But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to touch 

Upon his future pedigree; 

Nor less amazed that such a blot 

His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 

While he was highest of his line; 
Because unto himself he seem'd 
The first of men, nor less he deem'd 

In others' eyes, and most in mine. 

'Sdeath, with a page — perchance a king 

Had reconciled him to the thing; 

But with a stripling of a page — 

I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 

** * Bring forth the horse!' The horse was 
In truth he was a noble steed, [brought; 
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
Who look'd as though the speed of thouglit 
Were in his limbs; but he was wild. 
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 



MAZEPPA. 



335 



With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led; 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away! — away! — and on we dash! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

'* Away! — away! — my breath was gone — 

I saw not where he hurried on* 

'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 

And on he foam'd — away! — away! — 

The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes. 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout: 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 

And snapp'd the cord which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days: 
There is not of that castle-gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis weight. 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
Nor of its field a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood the hearthstone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass. 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 
I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof. 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash. 
They bade me to destruction dash. 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride, 
rhey play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour. 



There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven. 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



*< Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind, 
All human dwellings left behind; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern light; 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent. 
And bounded by a forest black; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tarters built of old, 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er; 
And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod; — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and grey. 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away, — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career; 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his speed; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoll'n limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and aff^i'ight: 
I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang; 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier than flame. 

XII. 

** We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
I saw no bounds on either side; 
'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. 
That bent not to the roughest breeze 
Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
And strips the forest in its haste — 
But these were few and far between. 
Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 



33^ 



mazeppa. 



Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 
Ere strewn by those autumnal eves 
That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
Discolor'd with a lifeless red, 
Which stands thereon, like stiffen'd gore 
Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
And some long w inter's night hath shed 
Its frosts o'er every tombless head. 
So cold and stark the raven's beak 
May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 
'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 
And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: 
W'here'er we flew they follow'd on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At daybreak winding through the wood. 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won; 
But now 1 doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain roe; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; 
All furious as a favor'd child 
Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 
** The wood was pass'd; 'twas more than 
But chill the air, although in June; [noon, 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Prolong'd endurance tames the l)old; 
And I was then not what I seem, 
But headlong as a wintry stream. 



And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o'er: 
And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
The tortures which beset my path. 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 
Sprung from a race whose rising blood, 
When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 
And trodden hard upon, is like 
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
Wliat marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk? 
The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 
But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
Which saw no further: he who dies 
Can die no more than then I died. 
O'ertorturcd by that ghastly ride, 
I felt the blackness come and go. 

And strove to wake; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below: 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee 
At the same time upheave and whelm. 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain; 
But soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
But a confusion worse than such: 
I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust: 
No matter; I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now. 



** My thoughts came back; where was I? 
Cold, 

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
And throb by throb; till grown a pang 

Which for a moment could convulse. 

My blood reflow 'd, though thick and chill ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart l)egan once more to thrill; 
My sight return'd, though dim, alas! 
And thicken'd, as it were with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh; 
There was a gleam, too, of the sky 



MAZEPPA, 



337 



Studded with stars; — it is no dream; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream 1 
The bright, broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes off the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance! 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized. 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 

XV. 
** With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top; a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the moon upon my right: 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes: 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then! 
Although detected, welcome still. 
Reminding me, through every ill. 

Of the abodes of men. 

XVI. 

" Onward we went, but slack and slow; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low. 

Or feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour; 

But useless all to me : 
His new-born tameness nought avail'd. 
My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had they been free. 



With feeble effort still I tried 

To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, * 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 

Which but prolong'd their pain: 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won: 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas, he came! 
Methought that mist of dawning grey 
Would never dapple into day; 
How heavily it roll'd away- — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars. 
And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
And fill'd the earth, from his deep thi'one, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



** Up rose the sun: the mists were curl'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before: 
What booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute. 
Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; 
No sign of travel — none of toil; 
The very air was mute; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice, was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst. 
Panting as if his heart would burst. 
The weary brute still stagger'd on; 
And still we were — or seem'd — alone: 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh. 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
No, no! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop; I see them come! 
In one vast squadron they advance! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride; 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils, never stretch'd by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet; 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 

23 



33S 



MAZEPPA. 



A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

lie answer'd, and then fell; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immovable. 
His first and last career is done! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong: 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide: 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve 
And backward to the forest fly, [aside. 

By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him, nor me; — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

'< And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round. 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resigned 

To that which our foreboding years 

Present the worst and last of fears: 

Inevitable — even a boon, 

Nor more unkind for coming soon; 

Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care. 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape: 
At times both wish'd for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery: 
I'or he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new. 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
And, save the future (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good, 



But as their nerves may be endued). 
With nought perhaps to grieve: — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his 
Appears to his distemper'd eyes, [friend, 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all. 
Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall : 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour; 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave? 
XVIII. 

** The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; 
I thought to mingle there our clay. 

And my dim eyes of death had need. 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, [die, 

Who scarce would wait till both should 

Ere his repast begun; 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand. 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise. 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam. 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 
And then subsiding back to death, 
And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense. 
An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — ' 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
A sigh, and nothing more. 

XIX. 

" I woke — Where was I? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me? 
And doth a roof above me close? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose? 



1^3. 



THE ISLAND. 



339 



Is this a chamber where I lie? 
And is it mortal, yon bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance? 

I close my own again once more. 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall; 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought; 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free; 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — • 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast: 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free; 
And then her hand on mine she laid, 
And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread. 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 
Even music follow'd her light feet; — 

But those she call'd were not awake, 
And she went forth; but ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say 
That I had nought to fear, that all 



Were near, at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return: — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 



" She came with mother and with sire — 
W^hat need of more! — I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nea:rest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess? — 

Let none despond, let none despair! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there, [threw 
Comrades, good night!" — The Hetman 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade. 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



P 



THE ISLAND; 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 
1823. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The foundation of the following story will be found partly in Lieutenant Bligh's "Narrative of the Mutiny 
and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 1789 ;" and partly in " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." 
GenoUf 1823. 

CANTO THE FIRST. 

I. jIn furrows form'd by that majestic plough; 

The morning watch was come; the vessel layiThe waters with their world were all betore; 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ;| Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 'The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 



340 



THE ISLAND. 



1823. 



Dividing darkness from the dawning main; That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray; Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 

The stars from broader beams began to creep, Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice: 



And lift their shining eyelids from the deep; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white. 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 



The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 



For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage. 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 



In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced 

breath : — 
They come not; they are few, and, overawed, 



Secure in those by whom the watch.was kept: Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 
His dreams were of old England's welcome In vain thou dost demand the cause: a curse 

shore, Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 

Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er; Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade. 

Mis name was added to the glorious roll Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 

Ofthose who search the storm-surrounded Pole. The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 
And why should not his slumber be secure? Thou dar'st them to their worst, exclaiming — 
Alas! his deck was trod by unw^illing feet, << Fire!" 

And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; But they who pitied not could yet admire; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny Some lurking remnant of their former awe 

isle, [smile; Restrain'd them longer than their broken law; 

Where summer years and summer women They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
Men without country, who, too long estranged,^ But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 
Had found no native home, or found it changed, 



And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd; 
The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 
The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 
Her horn; the equal land without a lord; 
The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 
In man — to have no master save his mood; 
I'he earth, whose mine was on its face, u-nsold. 
The glowing sun and produce all its gold; 
The freedom which can call each grot a home; 
The general garden, where all steps may roam, 
Where Nature owns a nation as her child, i 
Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild; [know,' 



** Hoist out the boat!" was now the leader's 
And who dare answer ** No!" to Mutiny, [cry; 
In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power? 
The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate. 
With its slight plank between thee and thy 
Her only cargo such a scant supply [fate; 

As promises the death their hands deny; 
And just enough of water and of bread 
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead: 
Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and 

twine. 
But treasures all to hermits of the brine. 



Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth theyi^^^re added after, to the earnest prayer 
Their unexploring navy, the canoe; [chase;* ^^ those who saw no hope, save sea and an-; 
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the | And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole— 
Their strangest sight, an European face:— The feelmg compass— Navigation s soul. 
Such was the country which these strangers > 

yearn'd 
To see again; a sight they dearly earn'd. 



And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the' first .sensation of his crime. 
And raise it in his followers — *'Ho! the bowl!* 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
Brandy for heroes!" Burke could once e\ 



Awake, bold Bligh! the foe is at the gate I 
Awake! awake! — Alas! it is too late! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer [fear.i claim * 

Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and Xo doubt a liquid path to epic fame; 

Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast, And such the new-born heroes found it here. 

The hands, whicii tiembled at thy voice, arrest: ; ; " ~; ; ; r 

7-. ) 1 ? 4.1, 1 1 i ^v, 1 * (It was Dr. Johnson who said, " Claret is the hquor 

Dragg'd o er the ddck,no more at thy command ^^^ ^^^^ . ^^^^ ^^^ ^^„ . .^^^ ^e who aspires to be a hero 

The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand;] (smiling) must drink brandy."— /?cjf7<////'* /^/f.] 



1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



341 



And drain'd the draught with an applauding 
"Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry. [cheer. 
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny! 
The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil. 
The courteous manners but from nature caught. 
The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 
Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, 

driven 
Before the mast by every wind of heaven? 
And now, even now prepared with others' woes 
To earn mild Virtue's vain desire, repose? 
Alas! such is our nature! all but aim 
At the same end by pathways not the same; 
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our 

name. 
Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame. 
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's 

din: 
Whatever creed be taught, or land be trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

VII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew; 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous 
W^hile others scofPd his augur'd miseries, [eyes : 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe. 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 
Seems far less fragile, and^ alas! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes 

sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the 

wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye. 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth. 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was with- 
drawn. 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'dthebold and frowardboy 



I His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
, Exclaim'd, '' Depart at once! delay is death!" 
: Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recall 
'Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from many show'd to one: 
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
"'Tisthat! 'tis that! I am in hell! in hell!" 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to the fragile ark; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell , 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave; 
The breeze now sunk, now whisper'd from his 
As on ^olian harp, his fitful wings [cave; 
Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean 

strings. 
With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff, 
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce seen 

cliff. 
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
That boat and ship shall never meet again! 

But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 
Their days of danger, and their nights of pain , 
Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton; 
The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no 

more; 
The varying frowns and favors of the deep. 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong; 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 
And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter from the main; 
The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past. 
As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

X. 
We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 
Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : 



342 



THE ISLAXD, 



1823. 



Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer, [fear. 
Whom distant vengeance had not tauglit to 
Wide o'er the wave — away! away! away! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; 
Once more the happy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw; 
Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woos 
To lands where, save their conscience, none 

accuse; 
Where all partake the earth without dispute, 
And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit;* 
Where none contest the fields, the woods, the 

streams: — 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore, [dreams, 

*The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which 1 
Capt. Bligh's expedition was undertaken. ! 



Till Europe taught them better than before: 
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err, 
" Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up; the lately flapping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, [ease. 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing 
Thus Argo* plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam. 
But those she wafted still look'd back to home : 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark; 
And yet they seek to nestle with the dove. 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 

*[Theship in which Jason sailed in search of the Gold- 
en Fleece.] 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,*' 
When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! I 
Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, j 

And hear the warbling birds! the damsel said:! 
The wood-dove from the forest-depth shall coo. 
Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo: 
We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 
For these most bloom where rests the warrior's 

head; 
And we wdll sit in twilight's face, and see 
The sweet moon glancing through the tooa 
The lofty accents of whose sighing bough [tree, 
Shall sadly please us as we lean below; 
Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main. 
Which spurn in columns back the bafiied spray. 
How beautiful are these! how happy they. 
Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives. 
Steal to look down where nought but ocean 

strives! 
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon. 
And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the 



Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, 
Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 



*The first three sections are taken from an actual song 
of the Tonga islanders, of which a prose translation is 
given in " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." 
Toobon-^i is 1 ot, however, one of them; but was one of 
those where Chribtian and the mutineers took refuge. I 
have altered and added, but have retained as much as 
possible of the original. 



Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 
Then lay our limbs along the tender turf. 
And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 
Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 
And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 
And wear the wreaths that sprung from out 

the brave. 
But lo! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 
The sound of mats are heard along our track; 
Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 
In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green; 
And we too will be there; we too recall 
The memory bright with many a festival. 
Ere Fiji blew tl^ shell of war, when foes 
For the first tirrre were wafted in canoes. 
Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds: 
Alas! for them our fields are rank with weeds: 
Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 
Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
But be it so: — t/iey taught us how to wield 
The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field: 
Now let them reap the harvest of their art! 
But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 
Strike up the dance! the cava bowl fill high! 
Drain every drop! — to-morrow we may die. 
In summer garments be our limbs array'd, 
Around our waists the tappa's white display'd; 
Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like 

spring's, 
And round our necks shall glance the hooni 

strings; 
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
Qf the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 



1823. 



THE ISLAND, 



343 



III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile; 
Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo! 
How lovely are your forms! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the 

deep! — 
We too will see Licoo; but — oh! my heart! — 
What do I say? — to-morrow we depart! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these 
climes. [growth — 

True, they had vices — such are Nature's 
But only the barbarian's — we have both; 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd [fix'd. 

With all the savage which man's fall hath 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain? 
Who such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the New — 
Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 



Such was this ditty of Tradition's days, 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine, 
Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave, 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave. 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side. 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear; 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sages' labors, or the student's dream; 
Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the 

rude — 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came and conquer'd; such, wherever rise 
Lands which no foe destroy or civilize. 



Exist: and what can our accomplish'd art 
Of verse do more than reach the awake*i'd 
heart? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 
The sweet siesta of a summer day, 
The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, [balm, 
When every flower was bloom, and air was 
And the first breath began to stir the palm, . 
The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 
Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy. 
Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 
Too powerful over every heart, but most 
O'er those who know not how it may be lost; 
O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire. 
Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
With such devotion to their ecstasy. 
That life knows no such rapture as to die : 
And die they do; for earthly life has nought 
Match'd with that burst of nature, even in 

thought; 
And all our dreams of better life above 
But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VII. 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild. 
In growth a woman, though in years a child, 
As childhood dates within our colder clime, 
Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime; 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars, 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 
With all her loves around her on the deep. 
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep; 
Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 
The blush would make its way, and all but 

speak: [threw 

The sun-born blood suff'used her neck, and 
O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue. 
Like coral reddening through the darken'd 

wave. 
Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
Such was this daughter of the southern seas. 
Herself a billow in her energies. 
To bear the bark of others' happiness, 
Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less: 
Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 
No joy like what it gave; her hopes ne'er drew 
Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, 

whose 
Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 
She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not. 



344 



THE ISLAND. 



1823. 



Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 
Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds 

pass 
O'er lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass. 
Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from 

the hill, 
Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 
Root up the spring, and trample on the wave. 
And crush the living waters to a mass, 
The amphibious desert of the dank morass! 
And must their fate be hers? The eternal 

change 
But grasps humanity with quicker range; 
And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 
To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

VIII. 

And who is he? the blue-eyed northern child* 
Of isles more known to man, but scarce less 

wild; 
The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, ; 
Where roars the Pentland with its whirling 

seas; 
Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wmd. 
The tempest-born in body and in mind. 
His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam. 
Had from that moment deem'd the deep his 

home, 
The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 
The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 
The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 
His bark was borne; the sport of wave and air; 
A careless thing, who placed his choice in 

chance, 
Nursed by the legends of his land's romance; 
Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
Accjuainted with all feelings save despair. 
Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
As bold a rover as the sands have seen, 
And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 
As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ;j- 
Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique; 
On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek; 
Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,;f 
Plunging for pleasure into pain: the same 
Spirit which made a Nero Rome's worst shame, 

* [George Stewart] 

t The " ship of the desert " is the Oriental figure for 
the camel or dromedary, and they deserve the metaphor 
well — the former for his endurance, the latter for his 
swiftness. 

X " LucuHus, when frugaUty could charm, 

Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm." — Pope. 



A humbler state and discipline of heart, 
Had form'd his glorious namesake's counter- 
part;* 
But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne! 

IX. 
Thou smilest: — these comparisons seem high 
To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
Link'd with the unknown name of one whose 

doom 
Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby; — 
Thou smilest? — Smile ;'tis better thus than sigh; 
Yet such he might have been; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief. 
To form a nation's glory or its grief, 
Born under auspices which make us more 
Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
But these are visions; say, what was he here? 
A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 
The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the 

waters, — 
Neuha, the sun-flower of the island daughters, 
Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 
The naked knights of savage chivalry. 
Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore; 
And thine — I've seen — Achilles! do no more. 
She, when the thunder-bearing strangers*came, 
In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the 

palm, 
Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm: 
But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 
Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
And sway'd the waves like cities of the sea. 
Making the very billows look less free; — 
She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 
Shot through the surf, like reindeer through 

the snow, 
Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

* The consul Nero, who made the unequalled march 
which deceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal; there- 
by accomplishing an achievement almost unrivalled in 
military annals. The first intelligence of his return, to 
Hannibal, was the sight of Asdrubal's head thrown into 
his camp. When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed, with 
a sigh, that " Rome would now be the mistress of the 
world." And yet to this victory of Nero's it might be 
owing that his imperial namesake reigned at all But the 

linikmy of the one has eclipsed the glory of the other. 

I When the name of " Nero " is heard, who thinks of the 

I consul ? — But such are human thinijs ! 



i823 



THE ISLAND. 



345 



Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge, 
And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk, 
Which heaved from wave to wave its tramp - 

Hng bulk. 
The anchor droppM; it lay along the deep. 
Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 
While round it swarm'd the proas* flitting chain, 
Like summer bees that hum around his mane 

XI. 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be told? 
The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to 

the Old; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
Their union grew; the children of the storm 
Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow, 
Which seem'd so white in climes that knew 

no snow. 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 
The soil where every cottage show'd a home; 
The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles; 
The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils; 
The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 
W^ithin whose bosom infant Bacchus V)roods, 
While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast; 
The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root. 
Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and 

fruit; [yields 

The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare. 
The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields. 
And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest; — 
These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 
The airy joys of social solitudes, 
Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
Of those who were more happy, if less wise. 
Did more than Europe's discipline had done. 
And civilized Civilization's son. 

XII. 
Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair; 
Both children of the isles, though distant far; 
Both born beneath a sea-presiding star; 
Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy. 
Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 
He who first met the Highland's swelling blue 



Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue. 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face. 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lands which are 

not mine. 
Adored the Alp and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,* 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian 

mount. 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me. Homer's universal shade! 
Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy stray 'd; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved be- 
fore. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and 

fair, 
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 
The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 
The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel. 
United the half savage and the whole, 
The maid and boy in one absorbing soul. 
No more the thundering memory of the fight 
Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight; 
No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest. 
Whose wetted beak and far-pervading eye 
Darts for a victim over all the sky: 
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
At once Elysian and effeminate, 
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn; — 
These wither when for aught save blood they 

burn; 
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, 
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade? 
Had Caesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Rome had been free, the world had not been 

his. [fame 

And what have Caesar's deeds and Ccesar\s 



* When very young, about eight years of age, after 
an attack of scarlet fever at Aberdeen, 1 was removed 
by medical advice into the Highlands. Here I passed 
occasionally some summers, and from this period I date 
my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget 
the effect, a fev/ years afterwards in England, of the 
only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, of a moun- 
tain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned to Chelten- 
ham, I used to watch them every afternoon at sunset 
with a sensation which I cannot describe. This was 
boyish enough ; but I was then only thirteen years of 
age, and it was in the holidays. 



346 



THE ISLAND. 



1823. 



Done for the earth? We feel them in our 
The gory sanction of his glory stains [shame: 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's 
song [so long, — 

From the tall bough where they have perch'd 
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 
Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wdfe, 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
Or wdth adulterous w^hisper to alloy 
Fler duty, and her glory, and her joy: 
With faith and feelings naked as her form. 
She stood and stands a rainbow in a storm. 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell., its colors move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Flere, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
They pass'd the tropics' red meridian o'er; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, [time, 
W^hich deals the daily pittance of our span. 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast: 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide. 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments 

glide; 
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour; 
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell;* 
The broad sun set,but not with lingering sweep. 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep; 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world forever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave, [wave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies. 
And then for light into each other's eyes, 

* The now well-known story of the loves of the night- 
ingale and rose need not be more than alluded to, being 
sufficiently famiUar to the Western and the Eastern 
reader. 



Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun. 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 



XVI. 
And let not this seem strange: the devotee 
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy; 
Around him days and worlds are headless - 

driven, 
His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
Is love less potent? No — his path is trod. 
Alike uplifted gloriously to God; 
Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 
The other better self, whose joy or woe 
Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame 
Which, kindled by another, grows the same. 
Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile, 
Where gentle hearts, like Brahmins, sit and 

smile. 
How often we forget all time, when lone. 
Admiring Nature's universal throne, 
I Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
I Reply oi hers to our intelligence! [waves 

Live not the stars and mountains? Are the 
j Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves 
I Without a feeling in their silent tears? 
No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 
1 Strip off this fond and false identity! — 
I Who thinks of self when gazing on the sky? 
I And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 
In the young moments ere the heart is taught 
Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own? 
All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's horn- 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
I Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit! — when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the. 
As, far divided from his parent deep, [shell,* 

* If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on 1 
his chimney-piece, he will be aware of what is alluded 1 
to. If the text should appear obscure, he will find in 1 
Gebir the same idea, better expresse 1, in two lines. The : 
poem I never read, but have heard the lines quoted by 
a more recondite reader, who seems to be of a different ; 
opinion from the Editor of the Quarterly Rev.eiv, who 
quahfied it, in his answer to the critical reviewer of his 
Juvenal, as trash of the worst and most insane descrip- 
tion. It is to Mr. Landor, the author of Cel/ir, so qual- 
ified, and of some Latin poems, which vie with Martial 
or Catullus in obscenity, that the immaculate Mr, 
Southey addresses his declamation against impu Jty. 



1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



347 



The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rockward to his nest, 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a 

voice! 
Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 
In such, an hour, to break the air so still; 
No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree. 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony. 
With Echo for their chorus; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
Exhaling all his solitary soul. 
The dim, though large-eyed winged anchorite. 
Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse, *« Hillo! 
Torquil, my boy! what cheer? Ho! brother, 

ho!" [eye 

** Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his 
The sound. ^'Here's one, "was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 
But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
Came breathing o'er the aromatic south. 
Not like a ** bed of violets " on the gale, 
But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 
Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had 
Its gentle odors over either zone, [blown 

And, puffd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 
Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the 

Pole, 
Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd. 
And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows, un- 
To yEolus a constant sacrifice, [abash'd. 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 
And what was he who bore it? — I may err, 
But deem him sailor or philosopher.* 
Sublime tobacco! which from east to west 
Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest; 
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides: 
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the 
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, [Strand; 
When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and 
Like other charmers, wooing the caress, [ripe; 

* Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, 
was an inveterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond com- 
putation. 



More dazzlingly when daring in full dress. 
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
I A human figure broke the solitude, 
I Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
jA seaman in a savage masquerade; 
i Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
' And the rough saturnalia of the tar * [car,* 
I Flock o'er the deck in Neptune's borrow'd 
i And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
I Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
I His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
j His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
I Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state; 
I But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over tightly bound, or nicely spread; 
And 'stead of trousers (ah! too early torn! 
For even the mildest woods will have their 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat [thorn) 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's 

growth, 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad. 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
But brawny as the boar's; and hung beneath. 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off) ; 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
jAs when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
I Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
I Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

! XXI. 

i** What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in 
full view [new?" 

I Our new acquaintance) Torquil. ** Aught of 

'"Ey, ey!" quoth Ben, «' not new, but news 
enow; 

A strange sail in the offing."- — * ' Sail ! and how ? 

What! could you make her out? It cannot be; 

I * This rough but jovial ceremony, used in crossing the 
line, has been so often and so well described, that it ne«d 
! not be more than alluded to. 



348 



THE ISLAND. 



1823. 



I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." [bay, 
** Belike," said Ben, ** you might not from the 
But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to- 
I saw her in the doldrums; for the wind [day, 
\Vas light and baffling." — *' When the sun de- 
clined [but still 
Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — ** No, 
She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
*' Her flag?" — *' I had no glass: but fore and aft, 
Egad! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
'' Arm'd?" — " I expect so; sent on the look- 
'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about." [out : 
< 'About ? — W^hate'er may have us now in chase, 
\Ve'll make no running fight, for that were base ; 
We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
*' Ey, ey! for that 'tis all the same to Ben." 
** Does Christian know this?" — ** Ay; he has 
piped all hands I 



To quarters. They are furbishing the stands ^ 
Of arms; and we have got some guns to 

bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — *' That's 

but fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha! ha I and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha! now 
Unman me not; the hour will not allow 
A tear; I'm thine whatever intervenes!" 
** Right," quoth Ben; «'that will do for the< 

marines."* 

* " That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't 
believe it,' is an old saying ; and one of the few frag- 
ments of former jealousies which still survive (in jest 
only) between these gallant services. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



The fight was o'er; the flashing through the 

gloom, 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
Had ceased; and sulphury vapors upwards 

driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven: 
The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy; 
No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for 

boom; [doom; 

The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their 
The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en. 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond their native shore. , 
No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth. 
Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; i 
Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought 

the wild. 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child; I 

But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, | 
And still more vainly men escape from men. j 

II. I 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes I 
Far over ocean in its fiercest moods, 
W^hen scaling his enormous crag the wave : 
Is hurl'd down headlong like the foremost 
brave, j 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind. 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind. 
But now at rest, a little remnant drew | 

Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few; ' 



But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former will, 
As men not all unused to meditate, [fate. 

And strive much more than wonder at their 
Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 
And dared as what was likely to have been; 
Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their 
Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot, [lot 
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves, 
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what 

they saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their countr)''slaw. 
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
Back on themselves — their sins remain'd aione. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they ^ 
Were lost; in vain the world before them lay; 
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice; ; 
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior erehis strength could be employ'd? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave!* 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 



* Archidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, 
when he saw a machine invented for the casting of 
stones and darts, exclaimed that it was the "grave of 
valor." The same story has been told of some knights 
on the first application of gunpowder ; but the originall 
anecdote is in Plutarch. 



1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



349 



Against the many oft will dare and do; 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till«^w,w^hen she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again! 

I 

III. 

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd. 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn. 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. 
A. little stream came tumbling from the height, 
And straggling into ocean as it might. 
Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray, 
A-nd gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless 

spray; 

Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 
Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
[While far below the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's Alpine azure rose and fell. [first 
To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings 
Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
Drank as they do who drink their last, and 
Their arms aside to revel in its dew; [threw 
Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the 

gory stains [chains; 

From wounds whose only bandage might be 
Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd 

sadly round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
'Alive and fetterless: — but silent all, 
:Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
lOn him for language which his lips denied. 
As though their voices with their catise had 

died. 



Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead; 
His light brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast. 
Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute. 
He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot. 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to 

flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally: — his worst wound was within; 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in. 
And blood-drops,sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 



Shovv'd that his faintness came not from 

despair. 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand 

nights. 
The fourth and last of this deserted group 
Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, 

then stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements would 

redouble, [trouble. 

With something between carelessness and 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes past before the eyes; 
But yet what minutes! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortalities. 

V. 

At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man. 
Who flutter'd over all things like a fan. 
More brave than firm, and more disposed to 

dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaim'd "G — d damn!" — those syllables 

intense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's "Allah!" or the Roman's more 
Pagan ** Proh Jupiter!" was wont of yore 
To give their first impressions such a vent. 
By way of echo to embarrassment. 
Jack was embarrass'd — never hero more. 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore: 
Nor swore in vain; the long congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound; 
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise. 
But merely added to the oath his eyes; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 



But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
"And is it thus?" he cried, "unhappy boy! 
And thee, too, thee — my madness must 
destroy!" [stood. 

He said, and strode to where young Torquil 



35^^ 



THE ISLAND. 



1823. 



Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress; 
Inquired into his state; and when he heard 
The wound was slighter than he deem'd or 

fear'd, 
A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 
As much as such a moment would allow. 
*' Yes," he exclaim'd, **we're taken in the toil, 
But not a coward or a common spoil; [buy, — 
Dearly they've bought us — dearly still may 
And I must fall; but have you strength to fly? 
'Twould be some comfort still could you 

surs'ive : 
Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh! for a sole canoe! though but a shell, 
To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 
P'or me, my lot is what I sought; to be, 
In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 
Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean: on it flew 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second foUow'd — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was 

hollow'd; 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view. 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the 

spray;— 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downwards in the thundering foam 

below, [sheet. 

Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet; 
But floating still throngh surf and swell, drew 

nigh [sky. 

The barks, like small birds through a lowering 
Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to 

sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land. 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd: 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer 

clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 'twas hi7n she grasp'd; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 



She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not 
despair. [blight 

Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could 
That full-blown moment in its all delight: 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb ; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts 

are greeting? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
In hopeless visions of our better days, 
When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
''And but for me!" he said, and turn'd away; 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
As heedless of his further destinies. 

X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought; 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The plash of hostile oars. — Alas! who made 
That sound a dread ? All around them seem'd 

array 'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai: 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests and launch'd their light 

canoes; [twain; 

In one placed Christian and his comrades 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away! away! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main; 
And now the two canoes in :hase divide. 
And follow diff"erent courses o'er the tide. 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away! away! 
A life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
And more than life or lives to Neuha: Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove; 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment: Fly, thou light ark, fly! 



1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



351 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts! but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale: 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more. 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 



Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind. 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird, 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood. 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand; 
Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell. 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair; 
A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foes; 
But all its secret was not told : she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

Ill, 
Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, [lot. 
The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's 
By her command removed, to strengthen more 
The skiff which wafted Christian from the 

shore. 
This he would have opposed; but withasmile 
She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 
And bade him " speed and prosper." She 

would take 
The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 
They parted with this added aid; afar 
The proa darted like a shooting star. 
And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 
Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 
They pull'd; her arm, though delicate,was free 
And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 



And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier 

strength. 
The prow now almost lay within its length 
Of the crag's steep, inexorable face. 
With nought but soundless waters for its base; 
Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 
And now what refuge but their frail canoe? 
This Torquil ask'd with half-upbraiding eye, 
Which said — ** Has Neuha brought me here 
Is this a place of safety, or a grave, [to die? 
And yon huge rock the tombstone of the 



IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes. 
Cried, ** Torquil, follow me, and fearless 

follow!" 

Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There was no time to pause — the foes were 

near — 

Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear; 
With vigor they puU'd on, and as they came, 
Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or where? He dived, and rose no 

more ; [shore. 

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and 
There was no landing on that precipice. 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face. 
Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace; 
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam. 
That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest 
White as a sepulchre above the pair [home. 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) ; 
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride; 
And but for this alone the whole might seem 
The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd 

away; 
Every superstition now forbade their stay. 
Some said he had not plunged into the wave. 
But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall; 
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
There was a dead hue of eternity. 
Still as their oars receded from the crag, 



35^ 



The island. 



1823. 



Round every weed a moment would they lag,! VII. 

Expectant^oh^ometoken^of their prey ; ^ [spray. I p-orth from her bosom the young savage drew 

" '^ "^ " A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo; 



But no — he had melted from them like the 



And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the nereid ? II ad they ceased to weep 
Forever? or, received in coral caves, 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt? 

VI. 



Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 

Follow'd: her track beneath her native sea 

Was as a native's of the element. 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel. 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious iFantastic'facesmoVed'andmow'd on high, 

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace [steel, j ^nd then a mitre or a shrine would fix 

The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, j The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 



A plantain -leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
This mantle kept it dry; then from a nook 
Of the same plantain -leaf a flint she took, 
A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the 

blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high. 
And shovv'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
The arch uprear'd by nature's architect. 
The architrave some earthquake might erect; 
The buttress from some mountain's bosom 

hurl'd, [world ; 

When the Poles crash'd, and water was the 
Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire, 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre ; 
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave* 
Were there, all scooped by Darkness from her 
I There, with a little tinge of phantasy, [cave. 



Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
The way — then upward soar'd — and as she 
spread 



Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
' And waved along the vault her kindled brand. 



Herarms, and flung the foam from off her locks, . j i j 1 • • .^^ r j u >j 

T 1,? J J 4.1. J 5j u *u And led him into each recess, and show'd 

Laugh d, and the sound was answer'd by the rr^, , , c ^^ • 1 j 

-i I The secret places of their new abode. 

-ri- ^^ I' • 5j . 1 1 r ^u • Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, T> r .. ..u i.u 1 > 1 ^ u if ^ 

-D^ii,f*r* jcu ji •• Before, to soothe the lovers lot she shared: 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. ^^^ J^^ ,_ _^,. ^^^ ^__ ,^^ ^_^^ _^,^^ 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave,* 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave, 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen. 



I The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew; 

iFor food, the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
c, ,1 , ,, 1 .„ ,1 -1 r Born of tlie fruit; for board the plantain spread 

'^_^^_^_*'°i2_^i'l'j!'"°^^_' A^'fZ,^!'^"^8>-een,^^j^^ i^^ broad ikf, or turtle-shell which bore 



In some transparent ocean holiday, , . , ^ • ^u a i, •*. ia •> 

Axru n .u I: i ^ \ x A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er; 

When all the hnny people are at play,^ Lr,, ^ j -^i . «. r ^ *u^ ..;ii 

1X7- J vu 1, u • .1 u • L rV .1, I The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's '^.^ ^. , r ..i, n u;n 

'^ r_ _• _ The ripe banana from the mellow hill; 

A pine-torch pile to keep undying light. 



eyes, [prise; 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his sur- 
Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut. 
And form a something like a Triton's hut; 
For all was darkness for a space, till day 
Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray; 
As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
The dusty monuments from light recoil. 
Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 



And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
JTo fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 

And make their subterranean world serene. 
I She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 

Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 

And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 

* This may seem too minute for the general outline (in 
Mariner's Account) from which it is taken. But few 
men have travelled without seeing something of the kind 
— on land, that is. Without adverting to Ellora, in 
'' Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be Mungo Park's last journal (if my memory do not err, for 
found in the ninth chapter of " Mariner's Account of the there are eight years since I read the book^ he mentions 
Tonga Islands." I hrive taken the poetical liberty to .having met with a rock or mountain so exactly resembling 
transplant it to Toobonai, the last island where a:ny dis- a Gothic cathedral, that only minute inspection could 
tinct account is left of Christian and his comrades. 1 convince him that it was a work of Nature. 



iS23. 



THE ISLAND. 



353 



For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry 

bower; 
And now §he spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 



She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast; 
Ant:l suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born:* 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago. 
Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey. 
Into the cave which round and o'er them lay; 
How in some desperate feud of aftertime 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe. 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe; 
How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
Then dived — it seeni'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their 

bark. 
Or deem'dhim mad, or prey to the blue shark; 
Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
Then paused upon their paddles from the 

shock; [saw 

When, fresh and springing from the deep, they 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe; 
And their companion, glorious by her side. 
Proud and exulting in his Mermaid bride: 
And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to 

shore; 
How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 
And why not also Torquil and his bride? 
Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
Which followed wildly in that wild recess 
This tale; enough that all within that cave 
Was love, though buried, strong as in the grave 
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death. 
When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd and 

press'd 



* The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek 
anthology, or its translation into most of the modern lan- 
guages : — 

" Whoever thou art, thy master see — 
He was, or is, or is to be." 



The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.* 
The waves without sang round their couch, 

their roar 
As much unheeded as if life were o'er; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony. 
Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 

And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they? O'er the sea for life they 

plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but 

where? [would bear. 

The wave which bore them still their foes 
Who, disappointed of their former chase. 
In search of Christian nowrenew'd their race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay: 
No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand; 
Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again. 
Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms which must be wielded here? 

XI. 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 
Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been; 
Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye. 
Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity. 
When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 
But, ah ! how different ! 'tis the cause makes all, 
Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 
Blazed through the clouds of death and beck- 

on'd hence; 
No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
Begun the praises of a thousand years; 
No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent. 
No heroes envy them their monument: 
However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 



* The tradition is attached to the story of Eloisa, that 
when her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard 
(who had been buried twenty years), he opened his arms 
to receive her. 



354 



THE ISLAND, 



1823. 



The leader of the band he had undone; [set 
Who, born perchance for better things, had 
His life upon a cast which linger'd yet: 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favor of his fall: 
And such a fall! But still he faced the shock, 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock] 
Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XII. 

The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the 
To act whatever duty bade them do; [crew 
Careless of danger, as the onward wind 
Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 
And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 
Against a nation's than a native foe, 
And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
They hail'd him to surrender — no reply; [sky. 
Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the 
They hail'd again — no answer; yet once more 
They offer'd quarter louder than before. 
The echoes only, from the rock's rebound. 
Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying 

flame, [aim, 

And the smoke rose between them and their 
W^hile the rock rattled with the bullets' knell, 
W'hich peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell; 
Then flew the only answer to be given [ven. 
By those who had lost all hope in earth or hea- 
Afler the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher, 
They heard the voice of Christian shout, ** Now, 
And ere the word upon the echo died, [fire!" 
Two fell; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 
And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
Disdain'd all further efl"orts save to close. 
But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath, 
While, placed 'midst clefts the least accessible, 
Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full 

well, [yield, 

The three maintain'd a strife which must not 
In spots where eagles might have chosen to 

build. 
Their every shot told: while the assailant fell, 
Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell; 
But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
^ Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 
The desperate trio held aloof their fate [bait; 
But by a thread, like sharks who've gorged the 
Yet to the very last they battled well, 
And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 
Christian died last — twice wounded; and once 



Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore; 

Too late for life, but not too late to die. 
With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye, 
A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake: 
He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 
But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 
His last ball had been aim'd,but from his breast 
He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 
Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and 

smiled 

As his foe fell; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
Look'd desperate as himself along the deep; 
Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, 

and shook [sook; 

His last rage 'gainst the earth which he for- 
Then plunged: the rock below received like 
His body crush'd into one gory mass, [glass 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and 

weeds, 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; 
Some splinters of his weapons (to the last. 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 
Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life mis-spent, 
And soul — but who shall answer where it went ? 
'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead; and they .J 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, * 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains [brains. 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse 

XIII. 

The deed was over! All were gone or ta'en. 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. [crew, 
Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant 
They stood with honor, were the wretched few 
Survivors of the skirmish on the isle; 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering. 



* In Thibault's account of Frederick the Second of 
Prussia, there is a singular relation of a young French- 
man, who with his mistress appeared to be of some rank. 
He enlisted and deserted at Schweidnitz ; and after a 
desperate resistance was retaken, having killed an officer, 
who attempted to seize him after he was wounded, by 
the discharge of his musket loaded with a button of his 
uniform. iSome circumstances on his court-martial raised 
a great interest amongst his judges, who wished to dis- 
cover his real situation in life, which he offered to dis- 
close, but to the khtg only, to whom he requested per- 
mission to write. This was refused, and Frederick was 
filled with the greatest mdignation, from baffled curi- 
osity or some other motive, when he understood that his 
request had been denied. 



i8i7. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



355 



While o'er them flapp'd the sea-bird's dewy 

wing, - [surge, 

Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring 

And screaming high their harsh and hungry 

dirge : 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow; 
Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 
Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 

'Twas morn; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
And watch if aught approach'd the amphibi- 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air: [ous lair 
It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch; her breath began to fail 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and 

high, [lie: 

While yet a doubt sprung where its course might 
But no! it came not; fast and far away 
The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
She gazed, and flung the sea -foam from her 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies, [eyes. 
On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 
Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse 

her boy; [all 

Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and 
That happy love could augur or recall; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 



His bounding nereid over the broad sea; 
Swam round the reck, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar, [shore; 
That eve the strangers chased them from the 
But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
Regain'd, and urged to where they found it 

now; 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 

I XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view. 
No more polluted with a hostile hue; 
No sullen ship lay -bristling o'er the foam, 

I A floating dungeon: — all was hope and home! 
A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 
With sounding shells, and heralded their way; 

I The chiefs came down, around the people 

: pour'd. 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored; 

jThe women thronged, embracing and em^ 

I braced 

I By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

\ And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 
One acclamation rent the sky again; 
And from that hour a new tradition gave 
Their sanctuary the name of '* Neuha's Cave," 
A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 
Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 
The feast in honor of the guest, return'd 
To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd; 
A night succeeded by such happy days 
As only the yet infant .world displays. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



1817. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

At Feirara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini*s Pas- 
tor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house, 
of the latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the contemporary, the 
cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
second over the cell itself, inviting unnecessarily the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed and depopulated ; the castle still exists entire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 



Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to 
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — [bear, 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 



When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate. 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade. 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; [brain 
And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 



356 



THE LAMKXT OF TASSO. 



1817. 



Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate. 

Which nothing through its 'bars admits, save 

day, 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey. 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
\Vhichis my lair, and — it maybe — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear. 
But must be b©rne. I stoop not to despair; 
For I have battled with mine agony, 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; 
And revell'd among men and things divine, 
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine 
In honor of the sacred war for Him, 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
For he has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
That through this sufferance I might be for- 
given, 
I have employ'd my penance to record 
How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 

II. 

But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done: — 
My long-sustaining friend of many years! 
If I do blot thy final page with tears, [none. 
Know that my sorrows have wrung from me 
But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child I 
Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet 

sight. 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight: 
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
Thou too art ended — what is left me now? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how? 
I know not that — but in the innate force 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, [why? 
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad — and 

Leonora, wilt not thou reply? 

1 was indeed delirious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou art: 
But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
Tliat thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from man- 
kind; 
But let them go, or torture as they will, 
^ly heart can multiply thine image still; 
Successful love may sale itself away, 
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate 
To have all feeling save the one decay, 
And every passion into one dilate, 



As rapid rivers into ocean pour; 

And ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry 

I Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl 

I And the half-inarticulate blasphemy! 
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul. 
Some who do still goad on the o'erlabor'd 

mind. 
And dim the little light that's left behind 
With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill: 
With these and with their victims am I classed, 
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years 

have pass'd; 
'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may 
So let it be — for then I shall repose, [close: 



I have been patient — let me be so yet; 
I have forgotten half I would forget, 
I But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 
Tp be forgetful as I am forgot! — 
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
I In this vast lazar-house of many woes? 
■Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the 
! mind, 

i Nor words a language, nor even men mankind ; 
s Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows. 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
f For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
j Many, but each divided by the wall. 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling 

moods; — [call — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's 
None! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 
Who was not made to be the mate of these. 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me 

here? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men. 
Debarring me the usage of my own. 
Blighting my life in best of its career, [fear? 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and 
Would 1 not pay them back these pangs again, 
And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan. 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
Which undermines our stoical success? 
No! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where thoti art a guest: 
Thy brother hates — but I can not detest; 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 



i8i7. 



J^HE LAMENT OF TASSO, 



357 



Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck — forth flies th« all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name [frame, 
The vivid thought still flashes through my 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me : — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard : 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward: 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas, 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd i 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — '■ 
Oh! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above; ' 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee: — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest. 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth [vade 
My soul was drunk with love, which did per- 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers. 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise. 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 
Though I was chid for wandering ; and the Wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made. 
And such a truant boy would end in woe. 
And that the only lesson was a blow; — 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 



The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee; 
And then I lost my being, all to be [away — 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was pass'd 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me! 

VII. 

I loved all Solitude, but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant: — had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave. 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suff"er more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore: 
The world is all before him — mine is here^ 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my 

bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye, 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay; — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free; 
But much to One, who long hath sufler'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
But Spirits may be leagued with them; — all 

Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me: in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can. 
It may be, tempt me further — and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see. 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 
I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er: 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd 
In mockery through them :— if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words — 'tis that I would not die, 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 



35S 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



1821 



Which snared me here, and with the brand of 
Stamp Madness deep into my memory, [shame 
And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cail, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless 

halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thy only crown — 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, [walls! 
While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled 
And thou, Leonora! thou — who wert ashamed 
That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 



By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to me — 
From long infection of a den like this. 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 
Adores thee still; — and add — that when the 

towers 
And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose, 
This, this, shall be a consecrated spot! 
But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty 

throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One-half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart. 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined forever — but too late! 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 

182I. 

" 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before.** 

Campbell. 



DEDICATION. 
Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime. 

Where I was born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great Poet- Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme. 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime. 

Thou art the cause; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 

Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms displayed. 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah! to what effort would it not persuade? 
Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. 



In the course of a visit to the city of Ravcnni in the summer of 1819, '^ ^^^ suggested to the author that, 
having composed somethuig on the subject of Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on Dante's exile, — 
the lomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to the native and to the 
stranger. «• j t 

" On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem, in various other cantos, 
to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the 
interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, tore- 
telling the f(jrtuncs of Italy in general in th<; ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the 
Ciusandra of bycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ, IhQ 



i82r. 



THE PROPHECY OE DANTE. 



359 



measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, 
except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph 
Yathek ; so that — if I do not err — this poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are 
short, and about the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have borrowed, and most probably 
taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or 
bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of *' Chi^e Harold " translated into 
Italian versi sciolti, — that is, a poem written in the Spenser ean stanza into blank verse, without regard to the 
natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, should chance to 
undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation 
of his great *' Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this 
very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count 
Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be considered as having decided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, 
since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation, — their 
literature ; and m the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner 
even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter 
into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, 
or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. 
But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with ihe English 
one; and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Once more in man's frail world! which I had 
So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel [left 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale : and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; 
Midst whom my own bright Beatrice* bless'd 
My spirit with her light; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad! first, last, best, 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! 
Soul universal! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love. 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, [move, 

That nought on earth could more my bosom 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless 
dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. f 



* The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronun- 
ciation of Beatrice, i sounding all the syllables, 
t " Che sol per le belle opre 

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui, si (rede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi fiso 

Pensar ben dei ch* ogni terren " piacere. 
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea- 
trice, Strophe third. 



I [Beatrir^e.] 



Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and 
bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With the world's war, and years, and ban- 
ishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling 

crowd, [spent 

And though the long, long conflict hath been 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's 

eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so .proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit,stern and high. 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set. 
And the night cometh; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me, 

pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure; [name 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my 
May form a monument not all obscure. 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vainglorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that 
blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 



'560 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



1821 



In bloody chronicles of ages past. [free;* 

I would have had my Florence great and 
Oh Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, *' but thou wouldst not;" as the 
bird * [thee 

Gathers its young, I would have gather'd 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce,' 
Against the breast that chensh'd thee was 
stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who/<?r that country would expire. 
But did not merit to expire by her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire! 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to 

have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted; let my dust 
Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which 
gave 

Me breath, Init in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom; 
No, — she denied me what was mine — my 
roof, [tomb. 

And shall not have what is not hers — my 

Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 
The breast which would have bled for her, 
the heart [proof, 

That beat, the mind that was temptation- 

The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw [p^-rt 

For his reward, the Guelf's ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness, 
Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the dis- 
tress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less. 

Though late repented; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was 
mine, 

* " L'Esilio che m' e dato onor mi tegno. 
***** 

Cader tra' boiini c pur di lode dcgno." 

Sonnet 0/ Dunie, 
i« which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temper- 
ance as banished Iroin among men, and seeking refuge 
from Love, wlio inhabits his bosom. I 



And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
Which would protect the murderess like a 
shrine, 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
Though, like old Marius from Minturna?'s 

marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go! 
Such are the last infirmities of those [woe. 
Who long have suffer'd more than mortal 

And yet being mortal still have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking 
glows 

With the oft-baffled slakeless thirst of change. 
When we shall mount again, and they tha? 

trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks 

Great God! [I yield 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my 
shield! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee! 
Thee whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
The sense of earth and earthly things come 

back. 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black. 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate Despair, 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare; 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my 
I am not of this people, nor this age, [wail? 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a 
Of their perturbed annals could attract [page 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the 
doom 



l82I. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



361 



Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 

Their days in endless strife, and die alone; 

Then future thousands crowd around their 

tomb, [known 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have 

The name of him — who now is but a name. 

And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 
Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — 
fame; 

And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 

Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 
My mind down from its own infinity — 

To live in narrow ways with little men, 

A common sight to every common eye, 
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den 

Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all 
things [pain — 

That make communion sweet, and soften 
To feel me in the solitude of kings [crown — \ 

Without the power that makes them bear a| 

To envy every dove his nest and wings j 
Which waft him where the Apennine looks 

On Arno, till he perches, it may be, [down 

Within my all inexorable town, j 

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,* \ 

* This lady, whose name was G^^w;;/^;, sprung from 
one of the most powerful Guelph families named Donati. 



Their mother, the cold partner who hath 

brought 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
And feel, and know without repair, hath 
taught 
A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought. 
They made an Exile — noi a slave of me. 



Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibel- 
lines. She is described as being **A d>noduvi viorosa, ut 
de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjugescriptunt esse 
iegimus,'' according to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lio- 
nardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his Life of 
Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry. 
" Qui il Boccaccio nonha pazienza, e dice, le mogliesser 
contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate il piii 
nobile lilosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figliuoli e 
uffici della Repubblica nella sua Citta; e Aristotele che, 
&c., &c., ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, 
e ricchezze assai. — E Marco Tullio — e Catone — e Varrone 
— e Seneca — ebbero moglie," &c., &c. It is odd that 
honest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of 
Seneca, and, for anything 1 know, Aristotle, are not the 
most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xan- 
tippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' happi- 
ness, whatever they might do to their philosophy — Cato 
gave away his wife— of Varro's we know nothing— and 
of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to die with him, 
but recovered and lived several years afterwards. But 
says Lionardo, " L'uomo e animale civile, secondo 
place a tutti i filosofi." And thence concludes that the 
greatest proof of the animal's civism is "la prima con- 
giunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Cittk." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 

When words were things that came to pass, 

and thought 
Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 

Their children's children's doom already 
brought 
Forth from the abyss of time which is to be. 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortality; 

W^hat the great Seers of Israel wore within. 
That spirit was on them, and is on me. 

And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
This voice from out the W^ilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to 
bleed, 

Italia? Ah! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own; 

We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within 
thy breast, 



I Mysoul within thy language, which once set 
With our old Roman sway in the wide West; 
i But I will make another tongue arise 

As lofty and more sweet, in which express'd 
The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs, 
i Shall find alike such sounds for every theme, 
' That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 

So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism when compared with 
thine. [wrong. 

This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so 
Thy Tuscan bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 

Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries 

Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
^ Heaving in dark and sullen undulation. 

Float from eternity into these eyes; 
The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep 
their station, 

The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 

The bloody chaos yet expects creation. 



j62 



THE PROPHECY OF DAXTE. 



1821. 



But all things are disposing for thy doom; All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 

The elements await but for the word, With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. [set;* 

" Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'stjNine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and 
a tomb ! | The chiefless army of the dead, which late 

Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, 1 Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 

Thou, Italy! so fair that Paradise, [stored; j Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate; 

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man re- Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice? Thou hadst been spared, but his involved 

Thou, Italy! whose ever-golden fields, [fice; thy fate. 

Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suf- Oh! Rome, the spoiler of the spoil of France, 
For the world's granaiy; thou, whose sky From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 



heaven gilds [blue; 

With brighter stars, and robes with deeper 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer 
builds 
Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen over- 
threw : 
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 
Where earthly first,then heavenly glory made 
Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy 
paints. 
And finds her prior vision but portray'd 
In feeble colors, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er 

thee. 
And wistfully implores, as 'tw^ere for help 
To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approach'd, and dearest were they 
free. 
Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 
The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, 
and Hun 



Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 
But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and 
Po, [and forever! 

Crush them, ye rocks! floods whelm them. 
Why sleep the idle avalanches so. 

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 

Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? 

Were not each barbarous horde a nobler 

Over Cambyses' host the desert spread [prey ? 
Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 

Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — 
why, 

Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 
And you, ye men! Romans who dare not die, 

Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 

Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where 
yet lie 
The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, ; 

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae? 

Their passes nK^-e alluring to the view 
Of an invader? is it they, or ye. 

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, '; 

And leave the march in peace, the passage 
free? 



Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
Ruin, already proud of the deeds done And makes your land impregnable, if earth 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Could be so; but alone she will not war. 

Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue In a soil where the mothers bring forth men: 

Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter Not so with those whose souls are little worth; 

Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
And deepens into red the saff"ron water Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
priest, [ter. The hearts of those within are quivering. 

And still more helpless nor less holy daugh- Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and! Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and 
ceased ! hosts to bring 

Their ministry: the nations take their prey. Against Oppression; but how vain the toil, 

Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast | While still Division sows the seeds of woe 
And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than And weakness, till the stranger reaps the 
they [gore spoil 

Are; these but gorge the flesh and lap the 

Of the departed, and then go their way; 
But those, the human savajjes, explore 



* See 
ciardini. 



'Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guic- 
There is another written by a Jacopo Buona* 



l82I. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Z^Z 



Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine 
and thee, 



And join their strength to that which with 
thee copes; 
What is there wanting then to set thee free. 

And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 

To make the Alps impassable; and we. 
Her sons, may do this with one deed — Unite. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



From out themassof never-dying ill, [Sword, 
The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven. 
There where the farthest suns and stars have 
birth. 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sound of archangelic songs. 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore. 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore: 

Like to a harp-string stricken by the wind. 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined [scoff. 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough. 

To thee, my country! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire; 

Think not that I would look on them and live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse; some stars shine through 

thy night. 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot 
blight; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give ihee honor and the earth delight; 

Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 



The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, [brave. 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far 
wave,* 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take thei" 

name;-j- 
For thee alone they have no arm to save. 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious,an d thou still the same ? 

Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be 
The being — and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free. 

And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced. 
And noxious vapors from Avernus risen. 
Such as all they must breathe who are de- 
based 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall 

Poets shall follow in the path I show, [listen; 
And make it broader: the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid 
them glow. 

And raise their notes as natural and high; 
Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall 
Many of love, and some of liberty, [sing 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's vving. 
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze. 
All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 

But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase 
Sul)lime shall lavish'd be on some small 
In all the prodigality of praise ! [prince 

And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's hallj: 



* Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
Savoy Montecucco. 

t Columbus, Americus Vegpucius, Sebastian Cabot. 

X A verse from tbe Greek tragedians, with which 
Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in 
which he was slain, 



3^4 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 



1821. 



As guest is slave, his thoughts become a 
booty, 
And the first day which sees the chains enthral 

A captive, sees his half of manhood gone* — 

The soul's emasculation saddens all 
His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne 

Quails from his inspiration, bound to 
please, — 

How servile is the task to please alone! 
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 

And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 

Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize. 
Or force, or forge fit argument of song! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flat- 
tery's trebles, 

He toils through all, still trembling to be 

wrong : [rebels, 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly 

Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 

He sings as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through 
his strain. 

But out of the long file of sonneteers 

There shall be some who will not sing in vain. 
And he, their prince, shall rank among my 
peers, f 

And love shall be his torment; but his grief 

Shall make an immortality of tears, 
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 

Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 

Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a [ 
But in a farther age shall rise along [leaf, j 

The banks of Po two greater still than he; 

The world which smiled on him shall do 
them wrong 
Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 

The first will make an epoch of his lyre, 

And fill the earth with feats of chivalry: 
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his 
thought 

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire: 
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 

Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 

And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
By the transparency of his bright dream. — 

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 

Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem; 
He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man; and his 
high harp 

Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 

Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 

And pious, and the strife of hell to war]) 

* The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 
t Petrarch. 



Their hearts from their great purpose, until 

wave [Cross 

The red-cross banners where the first red 

Was crimson'd from his veins who died to 

Shall be his sacred argument; the loss [save. 
Of years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame. 

Such shall be his meet guerdon! who was sent 
To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him 

well ! 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 

Harder to bear, and less deserved, for I 
Had stung the factions which I strove to 
quell; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
Will look on earth and heaven, and who 

will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery. 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom? 
Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year. 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield 

A heritage enriching all who breathe [a tear, 
With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul. 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unroll 
Through her olympiads two such names, 

though one 
Of hers be mighty, — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun? 

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling 

sense, [^"^^ » 

The electric blood with which their arteries 

Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the 
rough 
Storm be still scatter'd? Yes, and it must be. 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff. 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not 

And die or are degraded ; for the mind [agree, 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, ^ 
And vulture passions flying close behind. 

Await the moment to assail and tear; [stoop, 
And when at length the winged wanderers 



l82I. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



365 



Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they 

share [swoop. 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell 

Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd 

to bear, [droop, 

Some whom no power could ever forqe to 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest 

care! 

And task most hopeless; but some such have 

been, 
And if my name amongst the number were, 
That destiny austere, and yet serene, 



Were prouder than more dazzling fame un- 

bless'd. 
The Alp's snowsummit nearer heaven is seen 
Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 

Whose splendor from the black abyss is 
flung, [burning breast 

While the scorch'd mountain, from whose 
A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it 
sprung. 
The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best: 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would 
not lend [press'd 

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they com- 
The god within them, andrejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more bless'd 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame. 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets but without the name, 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 

And be the new Prometheus of new men. 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too 
late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower. 
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore? 
So be it: we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which still recoils from its encumbering clay 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow [bear; 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow. 
Or deify the canvas till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below. 

That they who kneel to idols so divine [there 
Break no commandment, for high heaven is 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy, which peoples but the air [fleeted, 
With thought and beings of our thought re- 
Can do no more: then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er th^ labor unapproved — Alas! 



Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
And temples, loftier than the old temples,give 

New wonders to the world; and while still 
stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome, its image, while the base expands* 

Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair 
And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 
Whom all hearts shall acknowledge as their 
Whether into the marble chaos driven [lord, 

His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose wordf 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. 



* The Cupola of St. Peter's. 

t The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 

SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 
Chi e cestui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante; e le piii illustre, e conte 
Opre deir arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pronte 
Le iabbia si, che le parole ascolto ? 
Quest' e Mose ; ben me '1 diceva il folto 
Onor del mento, e 'I doppio raggio in fronte. 
Quest* e Mose, quando scendea del monte, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 
Tal era allor, che lesonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui. 
E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzaste ? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo T adorar costui. 



366 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 



1821. 



Or hues of Ilell be by his pencil pour'd | 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne,* j 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, ] 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, : 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring 

from me,t [realms 

The Ghibelline, who traversed the three 

Which form the empire of eternity. [ 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less | 

Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while 

Calamity the nations with distress, [whelms 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely m all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and 

gaze 
On canvas or on stone; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 
Shall feel the power of that which they 

destroy; 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy. 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud,:}: who but em- 

The man of genius as the meanest brute [ploy 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labors, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
But free; who sweats for monarch sis no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed 
and fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show% 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal necks that bow. 

And then assure us that their rights are thine? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name. 
Must pass their days in penury or pain. 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of 
shame. 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain? 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 



* The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. 

t 1 have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
recollect where), that Dante was so great a favorite of 
Michael Angelo's, that he had designed the whole of the 
Divina Commedia: but that the volume containing 
these studies was lost by sea. 

X See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius II., 
and his neglect by Leo X. 



From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain. 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof. 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce? 
PTorence! when thy harsh sentence razed 
my roof, 

I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse. 
The hate of injuries which eveiy year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even 
The most infernal of all evils here, \thaty 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state; 
For such sway is not limited to kings. 
And demagogues yield to them but in date, 

As swept off sooner; in all deadly things. 
Which make men hate themselves, and one 
another, [springs 

In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that 

From Death the Sin-born's incest with his moth- 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, [er, 
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother. 

And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape, 

To fly back to thee in despite of wrong. 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners, [strong. 
Who has the whole world for a dungeon 

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for 

bars, [earth, 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were 

hers, [birth- 

His country's, and might die w^here he had 
Florence! when this lone spirit shall return 
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 

And seek to honor with an empty urn 
The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! 
<< What have I done to thee, my people?'-'* 
Stern 

Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
The limits of man's common malice, for 
All that a citizen could be, I was; 

Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war. 
And for this thou hast warr'd with me — 'Tis 
I may not overleap the eternal bar [done: 

Built up between us, and will die alone. 
Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 

Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 
As in the old time, till the hour be come 
When truth shall strike their eyes through 
many a tear, 

And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 

* " E scrisse pid volte non solamente a particolari 
cittadini del rcggimento ma ancora al popolo, e intra 
r altre una Epistola assai lunga che comincia : " PopuU 
yni, quid feci tibi ?''—Vita lU Dante scritta da^ 
LionardoAretino, 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 

DI MESSER LUIGI PULCI. 
1822. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
namorato the honor of having formed and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo 
were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a 
judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, has avoided the one; and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly 
been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Roncesvalles 
in the same language, and more particularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the same 
source. It has never yet been decided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the religion 
which is one of his favorite topics. It appears to me, that such an intention would have been no less hazardous 
to the poet than to the priest, particularly in that age and country; and the permission to publish the poem, and 
its reception among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended to rid- 
icule the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play with the simple dullness of his converted giant, seems 
evident enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding 
for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for the ex- 
quisite use of his Covenanters in the " Tales of My Landlord.'* 

In the following translation I have used the liberty of the original with the proper names: as Pulci uses Gan, 
Ganellon, or Ganellone; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlomano; Rondel, or Rondello, &c., as it suits his conven- 
ience; so has the translator. In other respects the version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in com- 
bining his interpretation of the one language with the not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification in 
the other. The reader, on comparing it with the original, is requested to remember that the antiquated language 
of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan prov- 
erbs; and he may therefore be more indulgent to the present attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, 
and whether or no he shall continue the work, are questions which the public will decide. He was indued to 
make the experiment partly by his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it is so 
easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately 
conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, 
and sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. The translator wished also to present in an English 
dress a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a northern language; at the same time that it has been the 
original of some of the most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well as of those recent experiments 
in poetry in England which have been already mentioned. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



In the beginning was the Word next God: 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 
This was in the beginning, to my mode [be : 

Of thinking, and without Him nought could 
Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee. 
One only, to be my companion, who [through. 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song 

II. 
And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride 

Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
Of heaven, and hell, and everything beside. 

The day thy Gabriel said "All hail !" to thee, 
Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied. 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and 
Be to my verses then benignly kind, [free, 
And to the end illuminate my mind. 



m. 



'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
And makes the nymphs enamor'd,to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind. 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised; but they 
Who to diff*use his glory were inclined. 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, [worse. 

Have /Understood Charles badly, and wrote 



368 



MOR GANTR MA G GIORE, 



1822. 



V. I Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
Leonardo Aretino said aheady, , The son of Pepin:— when his knights came 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer, hither. 

Of genius quick, and diligently steady, ,^Ie groan'd with joy to see them all together. 

No hero would in history look brighter; | ^^j 

He in the cabinet bein^ always ready, I ^^ ^ ^ 1 r i t- . i 1 • . i 11 j 

K ^ • ^y r ^^ ^ ■ f ' i i^ ; But watchful Fortunc, lurking, takcs good hccd 

And in the held a most victorious fighter, > ^. i , • . ^- . . -. • 

w^u r *u f^u ^ A t^\ • i.- c -^u u a < -c^ver some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 

Who for the Church and Christian faith had ^xt^u-i r-i i j 1 • .v • j ^1 

V. I Wnile Charles reposed him thus, in word and 

wrought, I 1 rl rtVi' • 

Certes, far more than yet is said or thought, i /. 1 j* ,1 .^11 1 *** 

-' I Orlando ruled court, Charles, and eveiy- 

VI. I Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 



You still may see at Saint Liberatore, 
The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory. 

Because of the great battle in which fell 

A Pagan king, according to the story. 

And felon people whom Charles sent to hell: 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 



To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the 
One day he openly began to say, [^iiig 

'* Orlando must we always then obey? 



XII. 



■ A thousand times I've been about to say, 
Orlando too presumptuously goes on; 
I Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy 
I Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, sway, 
VII. lEach have to honor thee and to obey; 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize' But he has too much credit near the throne, 
His virtues as I wish to see them; thou. Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 



Florence, by his great bounty don't arise 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 

All proper customs and true courtesies: [now, 
Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 



By such a boy to be no longer guided. 



i 



" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 

To let him know he was a gallant knight. 

And by the fount did much the day to win; 

But I know 2a/io that day had won the fight 

VIII. If it had not for good Gherardo been; 

Twelve Paladins had Charles in court, of whom The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

The wisest and most famous was Orlando; He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too,| 

While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the! , t/- .i i . 1 • ■ r^ 

J «=> ' ,;*« If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 

Of their sad rout, though he did all knight, ^^ 

And Dante in his comedy hath given 1^, "P ! /. 1 j rr »j u r n 

rp V- u ^ -4.1, r-u 1 • u The Christian cause had suifer'd shamefully, 

lo him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 1 tt j . 1 • ^ i • .v 11 • 

^^^ Had not his valor driven them back again. 

IX. I Best speak the truth when there's a reason why : 

'Twas Christmas-day; in Paris all his court ! Know then, oh Emperor! that all complain: 

Charles held: the chief, I say, Orlando was, As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
The Dane; Astolfo there too did resort, I O'er which I cross 'd with two and sixty Counts. 

Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass j xv. 

In festival and in triumphant sport, [cause; 

The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the 



In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
XIV. 
St bei _ 
When there advanced the nations out of 1 



Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
And gentle Belinghieri too came there: 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 

Wise Hamo, and the ancient wSalamone, 
Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 

Who was th« son of the sad Ganellon«, 



** 'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So that each here may have his prober part, 

For the whole court is more or less in giief: 
Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars ini 
heart?" 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sat apart: 

Displeased he was with Gan because he said it. 

But much more still that Charles should giv« 
him credit. 



lS22. 



MO RG ANTE MAG G I ORE. 



Tfi^ 



XVI. 
And with the sword he would have murder'd 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair, [Gan, 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were. 
Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there; 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief. 
And burst and madden'd with disdain and 
grief. 

XVII. 
From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 

He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the 
plain; 

And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 
Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 

Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
As ** Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up his sword to smite her on the head, 

XVIII. 
Like him a fury counsels; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take. 
Which Aldabella thought extremely strange; 

But soon Orlando found himself awake; 
And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 

And he dismounted from his horse,and spake 
Of everything which pass'i without demur, 
And then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place. 
And far as pagan countries roam'd astray, 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remembered by the way; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he 
found, [bound. 

Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Anglante: under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood. 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and 

In daily jeopardy the place below. [throw 

XXI. 



Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 

Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, 
And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 
How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, ** You are welcome; what is 
mine 

We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 

To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barr'd to you: 
Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 
** When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are ob 
scure, 
As you perceive, yet without fear or t;lame 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure: 
From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 

'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure; 
But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must 

guard 
Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 

XXIV. 

** These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 

For late there have appear'd three giants 
rough : 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 

When force and malice with some genius 

match, [enough: 

You know they can do all — we are not 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 

** Our ancient fathers, living the desert in. 
For just and holy works were duly fed; 

Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven 
instead; 

But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower J 
down for bread, 

From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 

And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 



XXVI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no ** The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far: he 
more, Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar trees, and 

Nor leave their cells for water or for wood; I oaks, 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 'And flings them, our community to bury; 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good; j And all that I can do but more provokes. 

*4 



37^ 



MO RG ANTE MAG G I ORE. 



1822. 



\Vhile thus they parley in the cemetery, 

A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumb- 
ling over, 
So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 
<* For God's sake, cavalier, come in with 
speed; 
The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
** This fellow does not wish my horse should 
Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. [feed, 
** Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need; 
That stone seems with good will and aim 
applied." 
The holy father said, ** I don't deceive; 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
XXVIII. 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own: 

** Abbot," he said, ** I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner- 
stone," [shallow; 

Said the abbot, ** Let not my advice seem 
As to a brother dear I speak alone; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 

As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

* * That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield 
you must: 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just: 

If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
P'or these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answer'd, " This I'll see, be sure. 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
** Then go you with God's benison and 
mine:" 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant. 

Then ask'd him, *' If he wish'd to stay as ser- 
vant?" 

XXXI. 

And promised him an ofBce of great ease. 

But said Orlando, << Saracen insane! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the 
peace — 



Vile dog! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
When he received an answer so injurious, 

XXXII. 
And being return'd to where Orlando stood. 
Who had not moved him from the spot, and 
swinging [rude. 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 
It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
I And head, and set both head and helmet 

ringing. 
So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 
But more than dead, he seem'd so stupefied. 

XXXIII. 
Then Passamont, who thought him slain out- 
right. 
Said, **I will go, and while he lies along. 
Disarm me: why such craven did I fight?" 

But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long. 
Especially Orlando, such a knight. 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recall'd his force and senses: 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, ** Giant, where dost 
go? [outlaid: 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier 
To the right about — without wings thou'rt too 
slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade! 
'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low," 

The giant his astonishment betray'd. 
And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on. 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand;[schemed: 
To split the head in twain was what he 

Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 
And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 

Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 
And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed; 

But while his crude, rude blasphemies he 
heard, 

Orlando thank'd the Father and the W^ord, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, ** What grace to me thou'st this day 
given ! 
And I to thee, O Lord! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even; 
Our power without thine aid would nought 
be found. 



lR22. 



MORGANTE MAG GI ORE. 



37» 



I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said this much, he went his way 
And Ala?baster he found out below, 

Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 

Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 
** How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone 
to throw ?" 

When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 

He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurPd a fragment of a size so large, 

That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission. 
And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 

There would have been no need of a phy- 
sician. 
Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 

And in his bulky bosom made incision 
With all his sword. The lout fell; but o'er- 

thrown, he 
However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 
Morgante had a palace in his mode, [earth, 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and 
And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode. 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep, and he came forth. 
The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd 
And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet [him ; 

Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd 
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set [him; 

At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
And to the gate he came with great regret — 

<* W^ho knocks here?" grumbling all the while, 
said he. 

" That," said Orlando, ** you will quickly see: 

XLI. 

'* I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance; 

For Providence divine, in you and others. 
Condemns the evil done my new acquaint- 
ance, [another's : 

'Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 

Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 

I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante said, ** Oh, gentle cavalier! 
Now by thy God say me no villainy; 



The favor of your name I fain would hear, 
And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 

Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 
I by my faith disclose contentedly; 

Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 

And, if you please, by you may be adored.** 

XLIII. 
The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

** I have had an extraordinary vision; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone. 

And Macon would not pity my condition; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition; 
His timely succor set me safe and free, 
And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando answer'd, ** Baron just and pious, 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, you will not then deny us 
Eternal honor, you will go above. 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us. 
And I will love you with a perfect love. 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud: 

The only true God is the Christians' God. 

XLV. 

<* The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine; 

If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 
Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 

Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 
Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 

Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 

To which Morgante answer'd, <* I'm content. ** 

XLVI. 
And then Orlando to embrace him flew. 

And made much of his convert, as he cried, 
** To the abbey I will gladly marshal you.'* 

To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied; 
'* I to the friars have for peace to sue." [pride, 

W^hich thing Orlando heard with inward 
Saying, '* My brother, so devout and good. 
Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would: 

XLVII. 

'* Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
Humility should be your first oblation." 

Morgante said, ** For goodness' sake, make 

known — [station. 

Since that your God is to be mine — your 

And let your name in verity be shown; 
Then will I everything at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 
**Then," quoth the giant, ** blessed be Jesu 

A thousand times with gratitude and praise! 



372 



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l82Z 



Oft, perfect baron! have I heard of you 

Through all the different periods of my days; 

And, as I said, to be your vassal too 

I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey went their way. 

XLIX. 

And by the way about the giants dead 
Orlando with Morgante reason'd: ** Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted; 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 
And our true Scripture soundeth openly. 

Good is rewarded and chastised the ill, 

\Vhich the Lord never faileth to fulfil: 



*< Because his love of justice unto all 

Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 
All who have sin, however great or small ; 

But good he well remembers to restore. 
Nor without justice holy could we call 

Him, whom I now require you to adore. 
All men must make his will their wishes sway, 
And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI. 
" And here our doctors are of one accord. 

Coming on this point to the same conclu- 
sion — [the Lord, 
That in their thoughts who praise in heaven 

If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damn'd in great con- 
fusion, — 
Their happiness would be reduced to nought, 
And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 

*' But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which seems to him, to them too must ap- 
pear 

Well done; nor could it otherwise befall: 
He never can in any purpose err. 

If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 

They don't disturb themselves for him or her : 

What pleases God to them must joy inspire: — 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 



**A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
** Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead; 
And if the will of God seem good to me, 

Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obeyM, — 
Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be! 

I will cut off the hands from both their Inmks, 

And carry them unto the holy monks. 



So that all persons may be sure and certain 

That they are dead and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in, 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the J 
curtain [pear." \ 

Of darkness, making his bright realm ap- 
He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 



Then to the abbey they went on together, 
W^here waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran 
thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 

Saying with tremor, ** Please to tell us w^hether 
You wish to have this person in or out?" 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 

Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 

LVU 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, "Abbot, be thou of good cheer; 

He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
And hath renounced his Macon false ;" which 
here 

Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear: 

Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God 
adored. 

Saying, *' Thou hast contented me, oh Lord!" 



He gazed; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once contemplated his size; 

And then he said, **Oh giant celebrated! 
Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 

How you could tear and fling the trees you late 

did, [eyes. 

When I behold your form with my own 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 



** And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 

Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
* Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said 
Christ; 
I And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 
I And went forever after preaching Christ, 
And of the faith became a trump, whose sound- 
I ing 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebound* 
1 ing. 



l822. 



MO RG ANTE MAG G I ORE. 



VIZ 



LIX. 

<* So, my Morgante, you may do likewise: 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangel- 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies [ist — 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints forevermore; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before!" 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot: many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
And saunter'd here and there, where'er they 
chose, 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 

LXI. 

There being a want of water in the place, 
Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 

** Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
To go for water." *< You shall be obey'd 

In all commands," was the reply, ** straight- 
ways." 
Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 

And went out on his way unto a fountain, [ain. 

Where he was wont to drink below themount- 

LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears. 
Which suddenly along the forest spread; 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head; 

And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears. 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; 

So that the giant's join'd by all the boars. 

LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow. 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear. 

And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career. 

And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 



Perceiving that the pig was on him close. 
He gave him such a punch upon the head,* 



* "Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is 
strange that Pulci should have literally anticipated the 
technical terms of my old friend and master, Tackson, 
and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. ''A 



As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 
Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled; 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took. 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved 
nor shook. 

LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear [vase. 
With the dead boars, and with that brimful 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good^ 

Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the 

All animals are glad at sight of food : [pork ; — 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 

That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 
Of rankness and of rot there is no fear. 
For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they 
ate; [been 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 

A few days after this convivial scene. 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd. 
Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 

Thinking that he a back of iron had. 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and 
hoof. 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur!" 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount. 
And said, <* I am as light as any feather. 

And he has burst; — to this what say you, 
Count?" 
Orlando answer'd,**Like a ship's mast rather 

punch on the head*' or, **a punch in the head,'* — " un 
punzone in su la testa,"— is the exact and frequent phrase 
I of our best pugilists, who little dream that they are talk- 
i ing the purest Tuscan. 



374 



MO RG ANTE MAG Gl ORE. 



1822. 



You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 

Let him go ! Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, 

still." 
To which the giant answer'd, ** So I will. 

LXX. 

** When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight," 

Orlando said, '* I really think you'll be. 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 
Hut never mind your horse, though out of 
sight 

'Twere best to carry him into some wood. 

If but the means or way I understood." 



The giant said, *' Then carry him I will, 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

To render, as the gods do, good for ill; 

But lend a hand to place him on my back." 

Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 

As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 

" Take care he don't revenge himself, though 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure, [dead, 

1 don't know if the fact you've heard or read; 
But he will make you burst, you may be 
sure." 

*' But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
'*And you shall see what weight I can endure. 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 

With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The abbot said, ** The steeple may do well. 
But, for the bells, you've broken them, I 
wot." 

Morgante answer'd, ** Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot;" 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell. 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force;" — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed; 

So if he did this 'tis no prodigy; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed. 

Because he was one of his family; 
And learing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by: 
** Put down nor bear him further the desert in.": 
Morgante said, ** I'll carry him for certain." | 



LXXV. 

He did; and stow'd him in some nook away. 
And to the abbey they return'd with speed. 

Orlando said, ** Why longer do we stay? 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 



The honors they continued to receive 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd: 

He said, '*I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
The lost days of time past, which may be 
blamed; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave. 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXX VII. 

'* But in my heart I bear through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude— 

So much I love you in so short a time : [good 
For me, from heaven reward you with all 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with press- 
ing." 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard. 

His heart grew soft with inner tenderness. 
Such fervor in his bosom bred each word; 

And, '* Cavalier," he said, <* if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth ap- 

pear'd. 

Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I have done too little in this case; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 

** We can indeed but honor you with masses. 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nos- 

Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places [ters. 
In verity much rather than the cloisters); 

But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fos- 

That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, [ters, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

** This may involve a seeming contradictioti; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, 
And understand my speech with full conviction. 

Fur your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI, 



375 



By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

** You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost; 

But months and years you would not stay in 
sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth; 

LXXXII. 

** But to bear arms, and wield the lance; in 
deed. 

With these as much is done as with this cowl ; 
In proof of which the Scriptures you may read 

This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
By your compassion: now in peace proceed. 

Your state and name I seek not to unroll; 
But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 
That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 

LXXXIII. 

*< If you want armor or aught else, go in. 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you 
choose. 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
Orlando answer'd, ** If there should lie loose 

Some armor, ere our journey we begin, [use. 
Which might be turn'd to my companion's 



The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXI V. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 

Was cover'd with old armor like a crust, 
The abbot said to them, **I give you all." 

Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 
The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too 
small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 
They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 
Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 



Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 
By the great Milo of Agrante fell 

Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall was figured well; 

In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 
Who long had waged a war implacable : 

Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 

And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 



Seeing this nistory. Count Orlando said 
In his heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things! how was Milo hither led? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die?" 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry,-- 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.* 

WRITTEN 1820. PUBLISHED 1830. 



FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 



CANTO THE FIFTH. 



**The land where I was born sits by the seas,f I 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, | 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,! 



*Francesca, daughter of Guido, Lord of Ravenna, 
was given by her father in marriage to Lanciotto, Lord 
of Rimini, a man hideously deformed. Afraid of dis- 
gusting his bride, Lanciotto resolved to be married by 
proxy; and sent as his representative his brother Paolo, 
who was the handsomest and most accomplished cava- 
lier in Italy. He engaged the bride's affections, and 
they were both put to death, afterwards, by the enraged 
husband. The father of the unhappy lady was the 
friena and protector of Dante, 

\ Ravenna. 



Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so 

strong. 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caink* waits for him our life who ended :'* 
These were the accents utter'd by her 
tongue. — 

Since I first listen'd to these souls offended. 



* The place where the souls of fratricides suffer. 



376 



MANFRED, 



[act I. 



I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — 
<* What think'st thou?" said the bard; when 
I unbended, 

And recommenced: ** Alas I unto such ill 
How many sweet thoughts, what strong 

ecstasies. 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!" 

And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
And said, *' Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognize?" 

Then she to me: " The greatest of all woes 
Is to remind us of our happy days 
In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 

But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 



I will do even as he who weeps and says. 
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 

Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 

W^e were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolor'd by that reading were; 

But one point only wholly us o'erthrew; 
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her, 

To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover. 

He who from me can be divided ne'er . 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all 
over: 

Accursed was the book and he who wrote! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover." — 
While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 

I swoon'd, as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls. 



DRAMAS. 



MANFRED : 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 

1817. 

* There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Merman. 



Witch of the Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, etc. 



The scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — partly in the Castle of Man- 
fred, and partly in the Afountains . 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Manfred alone. — Scene y a Gothic 

Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but 
even then 
It will not burn ^o long as I must watch: 
My slumbers — i. I slumber — arc not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not: in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 



To look within; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise; 
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth. 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not: I have done men good, 



SCENE I.] 



MANFRED. 



ni 



And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avail'd not: I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled,many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not: — Good, or evil, life. 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands. 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or 

wishes. 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm [appear! 
Which gives me power upon you — Rise! 

\A pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of 

him 
Who is undying, — Rise! appear! — Appear! 

\^A pause. 
If it be so, — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ! 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul. 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear! 

\A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery : 
it is stationary : and a voice is heard singing. 

First Spirit. 

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud. 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden; 
To thine adjuration bow'd. 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains: 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, , 



With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests oraced, 

The Avalanche in his hand; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day; 
But I am he who bids it pass. 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
And what with me wouldst Thou ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters. 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 
And the sea-snake hath life. 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells: 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 
Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth; 
I have quitted my birthplace. 

Thy bidding to bide — 

Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide! 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm; 
To speed to thee o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast; 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 

Seventh Spirit. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
W^as ruled, ere earth began, by me: 



i 



37^ 



MANFRED. 



[act 



It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air; 
Its course was free and regular, 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky! 
And thou! beneath its influence born — 
Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power (which is not thine. 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend, 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — [nie? 
What wouldst thou. Child of Clay ! with 

The Seven Spirits. 

Eanh, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, 
thy star, 

Ax-e at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — [say? 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals- 

Man. Forgetfulness — 

First Spirit, Of what — of whom — and why ? 

Man. Of that which is within me: read it 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. [there; — 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which 
we possess: 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
W^e are the dominators: each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask? 

Spij'it. It is not in our essence, in our skill; 
But — thou may'st die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget! 
We are eternal; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which 
brought ye here [will! 

Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd 

in clay! 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 



Spirit. We answer as we answer'd; our re - 
Is even in thine own words. [ply 

Man. Why say ye so? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be 
as ours. 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 
Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. [in vain; 

Spirit. Say; 

What we possess we off"er; it is thine: 
I Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
: Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length 
I of days — [days? 

j I\Ian. Accursed! what have I to do with 
[They are too long already. Hence — begone! 
I Spirit, Yet pause : being here, our will would 
' do thee service; 

Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine 
eyes? [we part— 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
Spirit, W^e have no forms beyond the ele- 
ments 
Of which we are the mind and principle: 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
Man, I have no choice; there is no form 
on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come! 
Seventh Spirit {appearing in the shape of a 

beautiful female figure). Behold! 
Man. O God! if it be thus, and thou 

Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [ The figure vanishes. 

IMy heart is crush'd. 
[Manfred /cz/Zi- senseless, 

A voice is heard in the hicantation which 
follows. 

When the moon is on the wave. 
And the glow-womi in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass; 

When the fallen stars are shooting, 

And the answer'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 



SCENE II.] 



MANFRED. 



379 



Shall my soul be upon thine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; 

There are shades which will not vanish. 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone: 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gathered in a cloud: 

And forever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by. 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head. 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse; 

And a spirit of the air 

Ilath begirt thee with a snare: 

In the wind there is a verse 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring; 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake. 

For there it coil'd as in a brake; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm : 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee, and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 
Which doth devote thee to this trial 



Nor to slumber, nor to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear: 

Lo! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither! 

SCENE II. 

The Mountain ofthejungfrau . — Time, Morn- 
ing, Manfred alone upon the Cciffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon 

me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — ■ 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me: 
I lean no more on superhuman aid. 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My Mother Earth, 
And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye 

Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest forever — wherefore do I pause? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds. 
And makes it my fatality to live; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

\_An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, [be 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets: thou art 

gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above. 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful! 
How beautiful is all this visible world! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 



38o 



MANFRED. 



[act I. 



To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make | Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 

Tlie breath of degradation and of pride, Hexp^d with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am 

Contending with low wants and lofty will, i feiddy. 

Till our mortality predominates, [selves,' C. IIuk. I must approach him cautiously ; if 

And men are — what they name not to them-, A '3udden step will startle him, and he [near, 
And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,! Seems tottering already. 
\^77ie shcphercVs pipe in the distance is heard. Man. Mountains have fallen, 



The natural music of the mountain reed 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering 

herd: 
My soul would drink those echoes — Oh, that I 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, [were 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me I 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois hunter. Even so. 

This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet 



Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren; tilling up 
The ripe green valley with destruction's splin- 
ters; 
Damming Che rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel. — Thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it? 

6\ Hun. Friend! have a care. 

Your next step may be fatal! — for the love 

Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. \not heariyig him). Such would have 

been for me a fitting tomb; 

Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce! My bones had then been quiet in their depth: 

Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here? They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 



Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath 

reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a free-born peasant's at this dis- 
I will approach him nearer. [tance. — ! 

Man. [not perceiving the other). To be: 

thus — [pines, 

Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless,branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling of decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by 

years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive! — Ye toppling crags of ice! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming,come and crush 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, [me! 
Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass. 
And only fall on things that still would live; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise up from the 

valley; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 
Alan. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; 

clouds [phury, 

Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sul- 



For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they 

shall be — [vens ! 

In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening hea- 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these 

atoms! 

[As Manfred is in act to spring from the 
cliff, the Chamois Hunter seize.^ and 
retains him with a sudden grasp. 
C, Hun. Hold, madman! — though weary 

of thy life. 
Stain not our pure vales wdth thy guilty blood — 

Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp 

me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl, 
Spinning around me 1 grow blind 

What art thou? [me 

C Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away with 
The clouds grow thicker there — now lean 

on me [and cling ; 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your 

hand. 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Came on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 
And something like a pathway, which the tor- 
rent [done— 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

\As they descend the rocks with difficulty t 
the scene closes. 



SCENE I.] 



MANFRED. 



381 



ACT II. 
Scene I.-— A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. 
Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 



C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not' 
yet go forth : | 

Thy mind and body are ahke unfit i 

To trust each other, for some hours at least; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither? 

Man. It imports not: I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guid- 
ance, [high lineage — 
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord? I only know their portals: 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths 
Which step from out our mountains to their 
doors, [thine? 
I know from childhood — which of these is 
Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine: 

'Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day 

*T has thaw'd my veins among ourglaciers,now 

Let it do thus for thine. — Come, pledge me 

fairly. [brim ! 

Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the 

Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses 

wander from thee. [warm stream 

Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure 

Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in 

ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart. 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed: but still it rises up. 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from 

heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
C, Hun. Man of strange words, and some 
half-maddening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort 
yet — 

The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience! Hence — that 
word was made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey: 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun, Thanks to Heaven! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell: but whatsoe'er thine ill, 



It must be borne, and these wild starts are 
useless. [live. 

Man. Do I not bear it? — Look on me — I 

C Hun. This is convulsion, and no health- 
ful life. [years, 

Man. I tell thee, man, I have lived many 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number: ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still un- 
slaked! [die age 

(7. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of mid- 
Hath scarce been set: I am thy elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend 
on time? 
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms; and one desert, [break. 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves 
But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas! he's mad — but yet I must 
not leave him. [I see 

Man. I would I were — for then the things 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. W^hat is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, [Alps — 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes [toils, 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf. 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph: 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul wasscorch'd already! 

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange 
thy lot for mine? [nor exchange 

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, 
My lot with living being: I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd re- 
Upon his enemies? [venge 

Man. Oh! no, no, no! [me — 

My injuries came down on those who loved 
On those whom I best loved: I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun, Heaven give thee rest! 



3^2 



MANFRED, 



[act II. 



And pepitence restore thee to thyself: 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Ma7i. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell! — Here's gold and thanks 

for thee: 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril's past; 
And once again I charge thee, follow not! 

\Exit Manfred. 

SCENE II. 

A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 

Enter Manfred, 

It is not noon — the sunbow*s rays still arch* 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
[Manfred takes some of the water into the 
pabn of his hand^ and flings it into the 
air, muttering the adjuration. After a 
pause, the WlTCii OF THE Alps rises be- 
neath the arch ofthesunbow of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least mortal daughters 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence [grow 
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, [leaves 
The blush of earth, embracing with her 

heaven — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er 
Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow, [thee. 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus. 
And gaze on thee a moment. 



*This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 
lower part of the Alpine torrents; it is exactly hke a 
rainbow come down to pay a vLsit, and so close that you 
may walk into it: this effect lasts till noon. 



Witch. Son of Earth! 

I know thee, and the powers which gave thee 

power; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both. 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. V^^^ 

I have expected this — what wouldst thou with 
Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing 

further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and 
I search no further. [now 

Witch, What could be the quest 

Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible? 

Man. A boon; 

But why should I repeat it? 'tw^ere in vain. 
Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 
Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but 

the same; [upwards 

My pang shall find a voice. From my youth 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
The aim of their existence was not mine; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my 

powers, 
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but slight communion; but instead. 
My joy was in the W^ilderness, to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's 

wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon. 
The stars and their development; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; 
Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 
While autumn winds were at their evening 

song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
Hating to be so — cross'd me in my path, 
I felt myself degraded back to them, 
And was all clay again. And then I dived, 
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, . 



SCENE 11.] 



MAl^FRED, 



Z^Z 



Searching its cause in its effect; and drew 
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd- 

up dust. 
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
Save in the old time; and with time and toil. 
And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air. 
And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
Eros and Anteros,* at Gadara, 
As I do thee; — and with my knowledge grew 
The thirst of knowledge,andthe power and joy 
Of this most bright intelligence, until — 
Witch. Proceed. 
Man, Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
'But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being 
^With whom I wore the chain of human ties; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one — 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her 
eyes. 
Her hail, her features, all, to the very tone 
' Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; 

But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty: 
I She had the same lone thoughts and wander- 
I ^ ings. 

The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe: nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her; 
Humility — and that I never had. [own — 

Her faults were mine — her virtues were her 
■I loved her, and destroy'd her! 
I Witch. With thy hand? 

i Man, Not with my hand, but heart — which 
broke her heart — 
It gazed on mine and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was 
I saw — and could not stanch it. [shed — 

Witch, And for this — 

: A being of the race thou dost despise. 
The order which thine own would rise above. 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
I The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st 
jTo recreant mortahty — Away! [back 



1^ * The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the rais- 
'itog of Bros and Anteros may be found in his Life by 

Eunapius. It is well told. 



Man, Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that 
hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
My solitude is solitude no more. 
But peopled with the Furies, — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
Then cursed myself till sunset; — Ihavepray'd 
For madness as a ble&sing — 'tis denied me. 
I have affronted death — but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, [hand 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In phantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
My long pursued and superhuman art. 
Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live forever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. [thou 

Witch. That is not in my province; but if 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey! and whom? 
the spirits 

Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never! 

Witch, Is this all? 

Hast thou no gentler answer? Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough! — I may retire then — say! 

Man. Retire! 

\The Witch disappears, 

Man. [a/one.'] We are the fools of time and 
terror: days 
Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live. 
Loathing our life, and o leading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — [pain. 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 



384 



MANFRED, 



[act II. 



As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
l^e but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be: 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor; and the Spartan monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phygalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fullill'd.* 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living: had I never loved. 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thmg I dare; 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit,.-good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — The night ap- 
proaches. \Exit. 

SCENE III. — The Summil of the Jungfrau 

Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 

The moon is rising broad, and round, and 

bright ; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread. 
And leave no traces; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
Frozen in a moment — a dread whirlpool's im- 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, [age: 
The fretwork of some earthquake — where the 

clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night [not. 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come 



* The story of Pausanias, King of Sparta (who com- 
manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and after- 
wards perished for an attempt to .betray the Lacedae- 
monians), and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's Life of Ci- 
mon ; and in th/s Laconics of Pausanias the sophist, in 
\t^^ description ofGrecce. 



A Voice without, singi?ig. 
The Captive Usurper, 

llurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 
Forgotten and lone; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's Tyrant again! 
Witli the blood of a million he'll answer my 
care, [despair. 

With a nation's destruction — his flight and 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast : 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his 
wreck; [hair. 

Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the 
And he was a subject well worthy my care: 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for mCc 

First Destiny, answe^ ing. 
The city lies sleeping*, 

The morn, to deplore it. 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly: 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread. 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead. 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my do- 
ing— [ingj^ 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renew- 

Etiter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men. 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves! 
First Dcs. Welcome! — Where's Nemesis? 
Second Des. At some great work: 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold, she cometh. 



SCENE I.] 



MANFRED, 



3SS 



Enter Nemesis. 

First Des, Say, where hast thou been ? 

3Iy sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

A^em. I was detained repairing shattered 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, [thrones, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness : from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date; 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
'i\) weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
ij\ freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstay 'd the hour — mount we our 
clouds ! [Exeunt, 

SCENE IN.-^The Hall of Arimanes-'-K'Rl- 
MANES on his throne^ a Globe of Fire y stir- 
rounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our master! — Prince of Earth and 
Air! [hand 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thun- 
der; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world 
asunder. 
Beneath his foot the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comet's herald through the crackling 
skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath, 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his Tribute ; Life is his. 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies ««^ Nemesis. 

First Des, Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
his nod ! 

Ncm. Sovereign of sovereigns, we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine,demands our care, 
And we are vigilant—thy late commands 
Have been fulfilPd to the utmost. 



Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal. — Thou most rash and fatal wretch. 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! 

What, know'st thou not [olxv ! 

Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and 

All the Spirits, Prostrate thyself, and thy 
condemned clay. 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Man. 'Tis taught already ; — many a night 
on the earth, [face. 

On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his glory ?— Crouch ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is 
above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits, Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence! Avaunt ! — he's mine, 
Prince of the Powers invisible ! this man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and 
As far as is compatible with clay, [will. 

Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been 

such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know- 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, 

nor being, 
Nor breath from the worm upward is exempt. 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their conse- 
quence. 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not. 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine. 



3S6 



MANFRED. 



[act it 



And thine, it may be— be it so, or not, 

Xo other spirit in this region hath 

A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

A^ein. What doth he here then ? 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ve know what I have known ; and 
without power 
1 could not be among ye ; but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Xern. What wouldst thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

A^em. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal t 

Ari. Yea. 

Nem. Whom wouldst thou 

Uncharnel } 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return'd to the earth, 

Re-appear to tlie day! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 
Appear I — appear ! — appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 

[ Thd Phantom of AsTARTE rises and 
staiids ifi their inidsi. 

Mail. Can this be death? there's bloom! 
upon her cheek; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! O God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 

The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken. 
Or those who have calTd thee. 
Man. She is silent. 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
A^em. Mv power extcndK no further. Prince 
of Air ! ' 



It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre. 

Arw. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs. 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Mail. Hear me ; hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much e idure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changes 

thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee; we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both— that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night. 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd 
boughs, [the caves 

And woke the mountain wolves, and made 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name. 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd 

me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars. 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness. — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for mc : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me! though it be in wrath; — but say — 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Pha7ito7fi of Astarte. Manfred ! 

Man. Say on, say o ^. ■ 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred ! to-morrow ends tb.i: : 
Farewell ! [earthly ilis, 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell. 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewer ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say thou love.st 

Phan. Manfred ! [me. 

[ The Spirit of A^TXKVE disappear s^ 

Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
Tier words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth 



SCENE I.] 



MAXFRED, 



f^l 



A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to be a 
mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth him- 
self, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

A^em. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers } 
Mail. None. 

Nein. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the 
earth t 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

{^Exit Manfred. 
[Scene closes,) 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A Hallin the Castle <?/" Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the'tower 
As I directed ? 

Pier. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Ma7i. It is well ; 

Thou may- St retire. \Exit Herman. 

Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should 

deem 
The golden secret, the sought *' Kalon" found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but 
once : [sense, 

It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new 
And I within my tablets w^ould note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there t 

Re-enter Herman. 
Iler. My lord, the Abbot of St, Maurice 
To greet your presence. [craves 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls ; 



Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would my 
reverend guest } 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and 
zeal, my office, 
And good intent must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbor- 
hood, 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou boldest converse with 
the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch 
these things } [antry — 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peas- 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity; reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church 
to Heaven. [e'er 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; What- 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself — I shall not choose a mor- 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd ftal 

Against your ordinances .-* Prove, and punish! 

Abbot. My son ! I do not speak of punish- 
ment, 
But penitence and pardon; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief [sin 
Have given me power to smooth the path from 
To higher hope and better thoughts; the first 
I leave to Heaven — " Vengeance is mine 

alone! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word, [men, 

Man. Old man I there is no power in holy 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 



-,8S 



MANFRED. 



[\cn: tir. 



Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 

'J'he innate tortures of that deep despair, 

Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 

But all in all sufficient to itself 

Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 

From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 

(^f its own sins,wrongs,sufferance, and revenge 

Upon itself ; there is no future pang 

Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 

lie deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
Bv an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place. 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — wSay on — [taught; 
And all our Church can teach thee shall be 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

Mail. When Rome's sixth emperor*was near 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, [his last; 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ?'' 

Abbot. And what of this? 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

**It is too late !'^ 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, [hope? 
And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they cling like drowning 
men. 

Man. Ay — father! I have had those earthly 
And noble aspirations in my youth, [visions 
To make my own the mind of other men. 
The enlightener of nations; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall; 
But fall even as the mountain-cataract, [height, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 
Lies low, but mighty still. — But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; 

for he [and sue — 

Must serve who fain would sway; and soothe — 

And watch all time — and pry into all place — 



*Otlu. 



And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are : I disdain' d to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
Th.e lion is alone, and so am I. [men? 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other 

Man. Because mv nature was averse from 
life; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation ; — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert,and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly; such hath been 
The course of my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weari- 
Some of disease — and some insanity — [ness — 
And some of wither'd or of broken hearts; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things 
One were enough; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself 
P^ar more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

\Exit Manfred. 

Abbot, This should have been a noble crea- 
ture : he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos— light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure 

thoughts, 
Mix'd and contending without end or order — 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not; I will try once more, 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 



[scene III. 



MANFRED, 



3S9 



Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
1*11 follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

\^Exit Abbot. 

Scene II. — Another Chamber. 

Manfred a7td Herman. 

Her, My lord, you bade me wait on you at 
He sinks oehind the mountain. [sunset : 

Man, Doth he so t 

I will look on him. 
[Manfred advances to the window of the hall. 

Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons* 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did drawdown 
The erring spirits, who can ne*er return.™ 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveaPd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty ,- 
Which gladdened, on their mountain-tops, the 

hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pourM 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — [star ! 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes. 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. YExit Manfred. 

Scene III. — The Mountains — The Castle of 
Manfred at some distance. — A terrace before 
a Tower, — Time^ Twilight, 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependents of 
Manfred. 

Her. Tis strange enough ; night after night, 
for years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it — 
So have we all been ofttimes : but from it, 

* " And it came to pass, that the sons of God ^d,^ the 
daughters of men that they were fair,''&c. — "There 
were giants in the earth in those days ; and also after 
that, when the sons 0/ Godz2iva& in unto the daughters 
of men, and they bare children to them, the same 
became mighty men which were of old, men of re- 
nown. "—Gen. vi. 2, 4. 



Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure there is 
One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three 
To pore upon its mysteries. [years, 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already, 

Her. Ay, Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt with- 
in the castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Ma7iuel, Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her, There be more sons in like predica- 
But wherein do they differ ? [ment. 

Manuel, I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not [free — 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forest like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have 
Some strange things in them, Herman, [seen 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same 
tower. [member 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do re- 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; yon red cloud which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower — 
How occupied, we know not, but with him 
The sole companions of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, — 

The Lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here.^ 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master } 

Her. Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 



390 



MANFRED. 



[act iir. 



Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not l)e thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 
The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV.. — Interior of the Tower. 
Manfred alone. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
' Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 
I'he trees which grew along the broken arches 
W^aved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Caesar's palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
])fgun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt, 
A:u.i dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd battle- 
ments, 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — [halls, 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
all this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Whicli soften'd down the hoar austerity 
Of ru'./f'-cd desolation, and filled ui), 



As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still 
Our spirits from their urns. — [rule 

'Twas such a night ! 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

E^iter the Abbot. 

Abbot, My good lord, 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; it's good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — ■ 
Could I touch that.^ with words or prayers, I 

should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not : 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me \ 
I Man. Not I; 

I I simply tell thee peril is at hand 
! And would preserve thee. 
I Abbot What dost mean ? 

I Man. Look there I 

j What dost thou see ? 
! Abbot. Nothing. 

i Man. Look there, I say, 

j And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 
' Abbot. That which should shake me — but I 
I fear it not — 

I I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
j Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
I His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
; Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
Ma)i Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm 
thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into 
I say to thee — Retire ! [palsy. 

Abbot. And I rej^ly — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend ; — 
What doth he here } 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ^. — 
I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
Abbot. Alas, lost mortal ! what with guests 
like these 
Hast thou to do .^ I tremble for thy sake ; 
Why tlr)th he gaze on thee, and thou ow hiui .'* 



1 



SCENE I.] 



MANFRED, 



39 f- 



Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder- scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
Avaunt ! — 
Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot, What art thou, unknown being? 
answer ! — speak ! ['tis time. 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 
Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent 
thee here ? 
Spirit. Thou'lt known anon — Come ! come ! 
Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! 
I say. 
Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, 
To render up my soul to such as thee : [but not 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my breth- 
ren. — Rise ! \Other Spirits rise tip. 
Abbot. Avaunt, ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I 
say : — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power. 

And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, [order: 
It were in vaiu : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though feel I my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life .'* the very life 
Which made thee wretched } 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know. 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
But by superior science — penanc*— daring — 



And length of watching — strength of mind — 

and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee — 

Man. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punished but by other crimen, 
And greater criminals ? — back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done : I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst 

not tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 
[ The Lemons disappear 
Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips 
are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping 

throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Hea- 
ven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought — but die not thus. 
Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee 
not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well- 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot Cold — cold — even to the heart — 

But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with 

thee ? 

Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'cn its 

earthless flight — 

Whither .^ I dread to think — but he is gone. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE: 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 

IN FIVE ACTS. 

1820. 

** Dmx inquieti turbidus Adrice^ — HoRACB. 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino FaHero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
singular government, city, and people of modem history. It occurred in the year 1355. Everything about 
Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this 
Doge is to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the " Lives of the Doges," by Mann 
Sanuta, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic'in itself 
than any which can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents and of courage. I tindhim commander-in-chief of the 
land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing 
eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time m check ; an exploit to which I know none sim- 
ilar in history, except that of Caesar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander 
of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at .Genoa and Rome, —at which last 
he received the news of his election to the dukedum ; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, 
since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to 
have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told of Sanuto, of his having, many years before, when 
podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who wassomewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For 
this, honest Sanuto ** saddles him with a judgmetit," as Thwackum did Square but he does not tell us whether 
he was punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to 
have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief 
of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of count, by Lorenzo Count-bishop of Ceneda. For 
these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first 
published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his " Monumenti, Veneziani di varia Letteratura," printed in 
1796, all of which I have looked over in the original language. The modems, Daru, Sismondi, and Laugier, 
nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to \\\% jealousy ; but I find this 
nowhere asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that " Altri scrissero che .... 
dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto Michael Steno) staccar con violenza," &c., &c. : but this appears 
to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by^ Sanuto, or by Navagero: and Sandi him- 
self adds, a moment after, that " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il so/o desiderio di vendetta lo 
dispose alia congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelavaa farsi principe independente." 
The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross affront of the words written by Michael Steno on the 
ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre 
Capi." The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been directed towards one of her 'damsels, and not the 
Dogaressi " herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, 
and remarked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an assertion, that the Doge 
was actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but rather by respect for her, and for his own honor, warranted by his past 
services and present djgnity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his view of Italy. His 
account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect 
from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder at 
this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marl- 
borough of his command, and lead to the inglorious peace of Utrecht— that Louis Xi V. was plunged into the most 
desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him 
another occupation— that Helen lost Tro^ — that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from Rome— and that Cava 
brought the Moors to Spain— that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome— that a 
smgle verse of Frederick II, of Prussia, on the Abbe de Rurnis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the 
battle of Rosbach— that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with MacMurchad conducted the English to the slavery 
of Ireland— that a personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first expul- 
sion of the Bourhf)n'^- — ard, i-.ot to nuiltiply incTanr-^r, \]vM CommoHus, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims not to 
their public tyranny, but to [irivate vengeanc.-~;i!id ihat nn order to make Ci(jmwell disen.bark from the shi)> in 
which he would have sailed to America destroyc.rl both King and Commonwealth. After those instances, on the 
least recollection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore lo seem surprised that a man used to command, who 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 393 



had served and swayed in the most important offices should fiercely resent, in a ficict ap;e, an unpunished affront, 
the grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faiiero is little to the purpose, 
unless to favor it, — 

" The you)ig man's wrath is like straw on fire, 

But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire.''* 
" Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier*s reflections are more philosophical : " Tale fti il fine ignominioso di un* uomo, che la « ua nascitai 
la sua eti, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per 
lungo tempo esercitati ne' mageiori impieghi, la sua capacity spenmentata ne' govern! e nelle ambasciate, gliave- 
vatio acquistato la stima e la nducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alia testa della repub- 
i!c.'.. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenie la sua vita, il risentiraento di un* ingiuria leggiera in • 
>inu6 nel suo cuore tal valeno che basto a corrompere le antiche sue qualitk, e a condurlo al termine dei scellera- 
li ; serio esempio, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenxa umana s'la suura, e che nelC ujnno restano 
sempre passio7ii capaci a disonorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso.*^ 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faiiero begged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find 
nothing of the kind : it true that he avowed all. He was conducted to the place of torture, but there is no 
mention made of any application for mercy on his part ; and the very circumstance of their having taken him to 
the rack seems to argue anything but his having shown a want of firmness, which would doubtless have been also 
mentioned by those minute historians, who by no means favor him ; such, indeed, would be contrary to his character 
as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no justi- 
cation, at any distance of time, for calumniating an historical character ; surely truth belong sto the dead and to the 
unfortunate : and they who have died upon a scaffold have generally had faults enough of their own, without at- 
tributing to them that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted them to their violent death renders, 
of all others, the most improbable. The black veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faiiero amongst the 
Doges, and the Giants' staircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my 
imagination ; as did his fiery character and strange story. I went, in 1819, in search of his tomb mere than once 
to the church San Giovanni e San Paolo ; and, as I was standing before the monument of arcther finiily, a priest 
came up to me and said ; " I can show you finer monuments than that." I told him that I was in search of that 
of the Faiiero family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. *' Oh," said he, ** I will show it you ; " and con- 
ducting me to the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible inscription. He said that it had 
been in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the French came, and placed in its present situation : that he 
had seen the tomb opened at its removal ; there were still some bones remaining, but no positive vestige c f the 
decapitation. The equestrian statue of which I have made mention in the third act as before that church is not, 
however, of a Faiiero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. Tiiere were two other 
Doges of this family prior to Marino ; Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara, in 11 17 (where his descendant afterwards 
conquered the Huns), and Vital Faiiero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally frorn Faro, was of ihe most 
illustrious m blood and wealth in the city of once the most wealthy and still the most ancient families in Europe. 
The length I have gone into on the subject will show the interest 1 have taken in it. Whether 1 have succeeded 
or not in the tragedy. I have at least transferred into our language an historical fact wcrthy of comn'.emoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work ; and before I had sufficiently examined the records, 
I was rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faiiero. But, perceiving no foundation for this in 
historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
form. I was, besides, well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my intention 
at Venice in 1817. '* If you make him jealous," said he, " recollect that you have to contei d with established 
writers, to say nothing of Shakespeare, and an exhausted subject : — stick to the old fiery Doge's natural charac- 
ter, which will bear you out, if properly drawn : and make vour plot as regular as you can." Sir William 
Drummond gave me nearly the same counsel. How far I liave followed these instructions, or whether they 
have availed me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to the stage ; in its present state it is, perhaps, 
not a very exalted object of ambition ; besides, I have been too much behind the scenes to have thought it so at any 
time. And I cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at the mercies of an audience. The 
sneering reader,, and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and distant caiamities ; but the trampling 
of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a mental labor to 
the writer, is a palpable and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt of their competency to judge, 
and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which 
could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason 
that, even during the time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, I never made tlie attempt, and 
never will. But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson 
exist. The City of the Plagice and the Fall of fertisalem are full of the best material for tragedy that has 
been seen since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate 
Horace Walpole — firstly, because he was a nobleman ; and secondly, because he was a gentleman ; but to say 
nothing of the composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he is the Uliimus Rottian- 
ortiiH, the author of the Mysteriotis Mother^ a tragedy of the highest order, and not a puling love-play. He 
is the father of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely worthy of a higher place 
than any living writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Mariw Faiiero, I forgot to mention, that the desire of preserving though still 
too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the English theatrical com- 
positions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it; 
whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation, and that of Israel Bertuccio. The other characters (except that 
of the Duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully short for such a desi^ hi real life, are 
t^strictly historical, except that all the consultations took place in the palace. Had I followed this, he unit>r would 
yiive been better preserved ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full assembly rf the conspirators, instead 
of monotonously placing him always in dialogue with t lie r-ain- ;.<■). iduals. I'*: the real i'atts, I refer to the 
Appendix. 



^ Laugier, Hist, de la R^pub, de Venise. Vol. iv. p. 30. 



394 



MARIXO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[ACT I. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Making Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
liKRruccio Faliero, N'ephei.u of the Doge. 
Lion I, a Patrician and Senator, 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michael Steno, One of the three Cap i of 

the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chiefs 

of the Arsenal^ 



Philip Calendaro, 

Dagolino, 

Bertram, 

Signor of the Nighty 



conspirators^ 



First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 
Vincenzo, 
Pietro, 
Battista, 

Secretary of the Couficil of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators^ Citizens^ The Coun- 
cil of Ten, The Giujita, &^c. , &*c. 



Officers belonging to the Ducal 
Palace. 



' ^' Signor e di Notte,** one I 
^ of the Officers belonging \ 
\ to the Republic. j 



Angtolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marlanna, her Friend. 
Female AttendaJitSy ^c. 



»SV^«^,— Venice. In the year ^i-^^^. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — An Antechamber in the Ducal 
Palace. 
Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger returned ? 

Bat. Not yet; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council. 
And long debate on Steno's accusation.* 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge, 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense } 

Pie. With struggling patience, 

Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions. 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
ile sits as rapt in duty; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step. 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders. 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
i'pon some edict; but I have observed 
i'.r the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 

Bdt. 'Tis said he is much moved, — and 
doubtless 'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly? 

BJ<^' ^ 'Twere enough 

He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for ns 

♦ See Appendix, Note A. 



To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
Bat. And here it comes. — What news, 
Vincenzo } 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. Tis 

Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown ; 
I saw the president in act to seal [judgment 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 

\Exeitnt, 

Scene II. — The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his A^epheWy 
Bertuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you 

justice. 
Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadorit did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; 
such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice 1 Know you 
But we shall see anon. [not the Forty } 

Ber. F. [addressing Vincenzo, the?? enter- 
ing\ How now — what tidings .•* 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that 
the court 
! Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
I As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 

t The Avogadori were the three conductors of crim- 
inal prosecutions on the part of the state. 



[scene II. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



395 



The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wondrous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is pass'd you say ? 

F/«. It is, your highness : 
The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
JN'ot only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

Ber, F. Are you aware, from aught you 
Of their decision ? [have perceived, 

Vi7t. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something 
given to guess [catch at: 

Which a shrewd gleaner and a quick eye would 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
And wise,and just,and cautious — this I grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty : but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the 
moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that [ing; 
Which pass'd among the judges, eveninsecm- 
My station near the accused too, Michel Stcno, 
Made me — [liver that. 

Doge, [abruptly,] And how look'd he ? de- 

Vtn. Calm, but not overcast, he stood re- 
sign'd 
To the decree, whatever it were : — but lo I 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The his^h tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd. together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Do^e. Retire, and wait without. Take thou \ 
this paper : 

[Exetittt Secretary and Vincenzo. 

The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber.- F, ■ Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ?— nay, doubt not, all 
Will. be as could be wish'd. 

Doge, Say on. 



Ber F. [reading]. *' Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
'i'he following words — " 

Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them ,> 

Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
Dishonor'd in its chief— that chief the prnice 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will 
obey — 
[Reads] '^ That Michel Steno be detain'd a 
In close arrest.'* [mcnih 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber, F. My lord, 'tis finished. 

Doge. How say you ? — finish'd ! Do I 
dream ? — 'tis false — 
Give me the paper — [Snatches the paper and 
reads] — *' 'Tis decreed in cour.cil 

That Michel Steno — " Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nav, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd 

Let me seek some assistance, [fur — 

Doge. Stop, sir — stir not — 

'Tis past. 

Ber F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence — 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty as that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori. 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld. 
Will now take up the cause they once declined. 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do \ ou 
stand [me. 

So fix'd } You heed me not : — I pray you hear 
Doge, [dashing doivn the ducal bonnet, and 
offering to trample upon it, exchuvis^ 
as he is withheld by his nephew.] — 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 

Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord — 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice .-* let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 



39^ 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act I. 



Brr. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice— 

Doge, \i7iterrtipting hini\ There is no such 
thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, help- 
less wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
Hut he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber, F. The law, my prince — 

Doge, {interrupting him.^ You see what it 
has done : 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law, — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law, — 
I caird no judges but those named by law, — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign. 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and 

service. 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, [hairs. 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance 'gainst the foulest 

stain. 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
And this is to be borne ! 

Ber, F, I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected. 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge, Appeal again ! art thou my brother's 
son."* 
A scion of the house of Faliero? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to 

Venice? 
But thou say' St well — we must be humble now. 
Ber, F. My princely unclQ ! you are too 
much moved ; — 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
We will ask justice : if it be denied. 
We'll take it ; but may do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep 

Silence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 



I love our house, I honor you, its chief. 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 
Doge, I tell thee — must I tell thee — what 
thy father 
W^ould have required no words to comprehend? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the torch ? hast thou no sou'; — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of 
honor ? 
Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honor has 
been doubted. 
And were the last, from any other sceptic. 
Doge. You know the full offence of this born 
villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
W^ho threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honor of — Oh God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor. 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul com- 
ments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene : 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous 

wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 
Ber. F, But still it was a lie — you knew it 
false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman ] 

Said, '^ Caesar^s wife must not even be sus- 
pected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber, F. True — but in those days — 1 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not J 
suffer, [dolo , 

That a Venetian prince must bear ? old Dan- j 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on. 
Because 'tis now degraded. 
Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Doge. It is — it is; — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilelv slan- 

der'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Vv'ho hath a wife whose faith is sweet to himd 



[scene ii. 



MARIXO PALIEKO, DOCE OF VPlKUCE. 



107 



Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whose honor's all to him, 
When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber, F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

Dogg. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of 
the State- 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he, instead of on the Doge's throne, 
Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold, for the carle 
Had stabb'd him on the instant. 

Ber. F, Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you? is not the offence 
redoubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 

Doge. It is redoubled^ but not now by him 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
W^e must obey the Forty. 

Ber F. Obey theyti I 

W^ho have forgot their duty to the sovereign .'* 

Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it then 
at last .? ' ' 
Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign v/ho commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my rights 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen); 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F, Not twelve hours longer, had you 
left to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard 

me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion. 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour : in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. [fain 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law : and vet I 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honor of our house must ever be. 



Doge. Fear not; you shall have time ;uid 
place of proof : 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why, that's my uncle ! 

The leader and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths and sovereign of himseli' ! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause — 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between. 
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir 

not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do. 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
^Tl'sfit I were alone. 

Ber. F, [taking up and placing the dtical 
bonnet 071 the tabL.] Ere I depart, 
I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd. 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kins- 
And not less loyal citizen and subject, [man, 
[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge.[solus\. Adieu, my worthy nephew. — 
Hollow bauble ! 

[ Takiftg lip the dtical cap. 
Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. 

[Puts it 071. 

How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my 

temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem ? 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules. 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant ? Li my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult— achieved for them, 
Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them .^ 
Oh for one year! Oh ! but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dashed amongst them, asking 

few 
In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 



398 



MARINO FAIJliKO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[Act I. 



In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos. 
Of darkly brooding thoughts: my fancy is 
In her first ^York, more nearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping images of things, 
P^or the selection of the pausing judgment, — 
The troops are few in 

Enter ViNCENZO. 

Vi7i. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. Fm unwell — 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council, 

Viii., My lord, I w^ill deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. [ley ? 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a gal- 
That is — I mean — a servant of the State ! 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit ViNCENZO. 

Doge. \sohi5\. This patron may be sounded ; 

I will try him. 
I know the people to be discontented ! 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day. 
When Genoa conquer'd : they have further 

cause, 
Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines 
To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft 

promised, 
And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay them- 
selves [priesthood 
With plunder! — but the priests — I doubt the 
Will not be with us ; they have hated me 
Smce that rash hour, when, madden'd with 

the drone,* 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
Thev may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy; at my hour 
Of twilight, little light of life remains. 
C'ould I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived too long, and willingly would 

sleep 
Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this. 
Better that sixty of my fourscore years [not — 
Had been already where — how soon, I care 
The whole must be extinguish'd — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would 

make me. 



* An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Life of the 
Doges . 



Let me consider^— of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

/7;/ May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake 
Is here to crave your patience. [of 

Doge, Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 

/. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom } 

J. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the 
Of least respect and interest in Venice, [twain 
You must address the council. 

/. Ber. 'Twere in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There's blood upon thy face — how ^ 
came it there ? [shed for Venice, "5 

/. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've - 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

/. Ber. Not long— 

But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice^ 
Permit not to protect himself : — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would dc 

Is it not so .'* 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is call'd so; 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice I \ 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may 

turn — 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, em-j 
At present in repairing certain galleys [plov' 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
FuH of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree ; I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand : — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er fIow*d 
Dishonorably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

/. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the 

Huns there, 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 



SCEXE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



390 



Doge. How ! are we comrades ? the state's 
ducal robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognized you not. Who placed 
you ? 
/. Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my old 
command 
As patron of a galley: my new office 
Was given as a reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say) : 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
Doge. Speak out, fear nothing ; being stung 
at heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this 
man ? 
/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and 

yet will do. 
Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 
/e Ber. 1 come for justice, 

Because my general is Doge, and \vill not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
Save Faliero, fiU'd the ducal throne. 
This blood had been vvash'd out in other blood. 
Doge. You come to me for justice — unto 7ne ! 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 
/. Ber, How says your highness ? 
Doge. Steno is condemned 

To a month's confinement. 

I. Ber. WHiat ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice } 
Doge. Ay, doubtless, they have echo'd o'er 
the arsenal. 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly artisans. 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sang the merrv stave, exulted 
He w^as not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 
/. Ber. Is't possible ? a month's imprison- 
ment ! 
No more for Steno } 

Doge. You have heard the offence. 

And now you know his punishment; and then I 
You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
WMio passed the sentence upon Michel Steno; 
They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
/. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings I 
Doge. Give them breath 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then in a word, it rests but on your 
To pun'sh and avenge — I will not say [word 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 



However vile, to such a thing as I am } — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 
Doge. You overrate my power, which is a 
pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these 

robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to a poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 
/. Ber. Wouldst thou be a king.? 
Doge. Yes — of a happy people. 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of 

Venice } 
Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty. 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, [body 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd 
i Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born, and still hast 

lived, patrician. 
Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted: but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honor were my guer- 
don, [conquer'd 
I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty. 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear 

spire 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men. 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would vou know why I have done all this .'* 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom } Had the bird a voice, 
She'd tell thee 'twas for allh^x little ones. 
/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
Doge. They ??iade me so ; 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy; 
And never having hitb.erto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did nor, 
At these late years, decline what was the 

highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 
/. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess 
the will; 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 
Doge. You speak in riddles. 



400 



MARIXO ]'ALIF.1U\ DOGR OF VENICE, 



ACT T. 



/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber, Not thou, 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on; but the whole 
people [wrongs ; 

Groan with the strong conception of their 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears; 
The native mariners, and civic troops. 
Feel with their friends; for who is he amongst 

them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives or 

sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them 

further : 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 
Doge, And suffering what thou hast done — 
fear'st thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

/. Ber, No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him. 
And sorrow too: for he will lose far more 
Than I. 

Doge. From me fear nothing; out with it ! 
1. Ber. Know then, that there are met and 
sworn in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have 

long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all climes, 
And having rescued her from foreign foes. 
Would do the same from those within her 

walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
]• or their great purpose ; they have arms, and 
means, [courage. 

And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient 
J)oge. For what then do they pause ? 
/. Ber, An hour to strike. 

Doge\aside'\. Saint Mark's shall strike that 

hour ! * 
/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honor, all my earthly ho])cs 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 

♦ The bells of San Marco were never rung but by 
order of the Doge. One of the pretexts for lingiiii; this 
alarm was to have been an announcement of the appear- 
ance of a Cknoese fleet off the Lagune. 



That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance: should it be so, 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many are ye ? 

/. Ber. I'll not answer that 

Till I am answer 'd 

Doge, How, sir ! do you menace ? 

/. Ber. No; I affirm. I have betray'd my- 
But there's no torture in the mystic wells [scii ; 
W^hich undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs." \ 
To force a single name from me of others, k 
The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; - | 
They might wring blood from me, but 
treachery never. [Sighs," 

And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murder'd, 

washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on't and 
avenge me. 

Doge. If such your power and purpose, why 
come here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do vourself due right ? 

/. Ber. Because the mail 

W^ho claims protection from authority. 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made 

me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

Doge. What was that } 

I, Ber. Some rumors that the doge was 
greatly moved 
Bv the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honor' i 

you, 
And felt that you were dangerously insultctl, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth, 
My peril be the proof. 

^Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 

But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far 111 answer you — your secret's safe. 

/. Ber. And is this all t 

Doi^e. Unless with all intrusted. 

W'ha't would you have me answer } 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



401 



/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your 
names, and numbers; [former 

The last may then be doubled, and the 
Matured and strengthen'd. 

/. Ber. We're enough already ; 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of 
your chiefs. [mal pledge 

/. Ber. That shall be done upon your for- 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. W hen.'' where.-* 

/. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apart- 
ment 
Two of the principals : a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. — 

What if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
And leave the palace } 

I. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son "i 
He died in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom 
thou doubtest, 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place 
of meeting > [mask'd 

/. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me. 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? [and dusky, 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick 
'Tis a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 
Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the 

same, 
'Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul; 
A gondola,* with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

/. Ber. I will not fail. 

Do^e. And now retire 



*A Gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 
rowed with one oar as with two (though of course not so 
swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy and, 
since the decay of Venice, of economy. 



/. Ber. In the full hope your highness will 

not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 
\^Exit Israel Bertuccio. 
Dogey [so/us.] At midnight, by the church 

Saints John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault. 
Where lie two doges who preceded me, 
And pluck me down amongst them ? Would 

they could ! 
For I should rest in honor, with the honor'd. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
W^ho have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of times. 
Which neve^ spare the fame of him who fails. 
But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT 11. 

Scene I. — An Apartment m the Ducal 
Palace. 

Angiolina {wife of the Doge) ^«^ Marian na 

Ang, What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That he was 

That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Ang. Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late, 
And Time which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame. 
Which seems to be more nourished by a somI 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who. 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts. 
His feelings, passions, good or evil all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of 

years. 
Not their decrepitude ; and he of late 
26 



402 



MARINO FALIEkO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



ACT It. 



Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he would come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
Bv the affront of Steno, and with cause : 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Aug. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me; I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge cannot suspect you } 

Aug. Suspect me ! 

Why, Steno dared not : when he scrawi'd his lie, 
Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmer- 
ing light, 
His own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'Twere fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 

A7ig. He is so. 

Mar. What ! is the sentence pass'd } is he 
condemn'd } 

Aug. I know not that, but he has been de- 
tected. 

Alar. And deem you this enough for such 
foul scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd 
virtue. 

Aftg. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Roman said "'twas but a name : " 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame. 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

A7tg This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth; 



And those who have not kept it, seek its seem- 
As they would look out for an ornament [ing 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
they think it so ; they live in others' thoughts 
And would seem honest, as they must seem 
fair. 

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a pa- 
trician dame. 

Ang. And yet they were my father's; with 
his name, 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none . 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

Ang, I should have sought none though a 
peasant's bride. 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestovv'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow 
your heart '^ 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar, Yet this strange disproportion in your 
years. 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
Might make the w^orld doubt whether such an 

union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Ang. The world will think with worldlings : 
but the heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

Mar.^ And do you love him ? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I love my father, who first taught me 
to single out what we should love in others. 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 
Brave, generous : rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
Such have I found him as my father said. 
His faults are those that dwell in the high 

bosoms 
Of men who have commanded ; too much ]^ride, 
And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
The uses of patricians, and a life 
Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 
A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth 

upwards. 
Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
Has lavish 'd all its chief employs upon him, 
From his first fight to his last embassy, [him. 
From which on his return the dukedom met 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



403 



Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, [heart 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand was still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

Aug, I answered your first question when I 
I married. [said 

Mar. And the second ? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar, I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I 
knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit them- 
selves 
To ponder upon what they ;/^w might choose, 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. 'Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they 

would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such 
thoughts. 

Mar, Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapt 

In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

\Exit Marianna. 

Enter the DOGE aiid PiETRO. 

Doge \itiusing\ There is a certain Philip 
Calendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; it would 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him. 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator, Bertuccio your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me 
Say in the second hour of night. [see — 

\Exit PlETRO. 

1^: Ang, My lord ! 

* ^"^ Doge, My dearest child, forgive me — why 
delay 
So long approaching me .'* — I saw you not. 
Ang, You were absorb'd in thought, and 
he who now [weight 

Has parted from you might have words of 
To bear you from the senate. 
Doge. From the senate ? 



Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang, I thought the Duke had held com- 
mand in Venice. 

Doge, He shall.— But let that pass. We will 
be jocund. 
How fares it with you } have you been abroad .? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends.'* 
Or has your music made you solitary } 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke .^ or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart. 
To compensate for many a dull hour wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares t 
Speak, and 'tis done. 

A7ig. You're ever kind to me. 

I have nothing to desire, or to request. 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer .'^ 

Ang, Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge, Disclose too much ! — of what } 

What is there to disclose 'i 

Ang, A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, [me 
And malcontents within — 'tis this which makes 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to skake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never 

sunk, 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne*er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port. 
Were civil fury raging in St. Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 



404 



MARINO FALIKJW, DOGE OF VENICE. 



ACT 11. 



Doge. Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is 

left me. 
Aug. Ves — the same sin that overthrew the 
angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature . 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 
Doge. I had the pride of honor, of yotir 
honor. 
Deep at my heart — But let us change the 
theme. 
Aug. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your 
kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress : were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 
Doge. To what I was ! — have you heard 
Ang. No. [Steno's sentence .'' 

Doge. A month's arrest. 
A7ig. Is it not enough "i 

Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley- 
slave, [master ; 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor 
Even on the throne of his authority, [viction 
Ang. There seems to be enough in the con- 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such men have no honor ; 

They have but their vile lives — and these are 
spared. 
A7ig. You would not have him die for this 

offence } 
Doge. Not now : — being still alive, I'd have 
him live 
Long as /^^can : he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred 

judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs, 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 

known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
Doge. Does not the law of heaven say blood 
for blood .'* 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds 
Is it iht pain of blows, or sha?ne, of blows, [it: 
That makes such deadly to the sense of man } 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor .'* 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 



Say not the laws of nations blood for treason 
Is't nothing to have fill'd these veins with 

poison 
For their once healthful current .'* is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the 

noblest names } 
Is't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people .'' to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man 1 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity [saved him. 
In ours i^ — But let them look to it who have 

A7ig. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own } Is 
From wrath eternal } [Satan saved 

Aftg. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

A7ig. And will you.' 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Ajig. And not till then.-* 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an 

old man's, [matters then 

Worn out, scorn'd, spurned, abused ; what 

My pardon more than my resentment, both 

Being weak and worthless .'* I have lived too 

long ; 
But let us change the argument. — My child ! 
My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
Thy father, wadding thee unto his friend, 
That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
ShamQ without sin, for thou art faultless. 

Hadst thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee, 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still 
love me, 
And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true ; what more 
Could I require, or you command } 

Doge. ' 'Tis well, 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter whv ; 

But I would still, whatever others think. 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Ang. Why should you doubt it.^ has it 
ever fail'd [with you. 

Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly; when, 
oppress'd 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DGGE OF VENICE. 



405 



With his last malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undowered maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the 
Which soothed his death-bed. [thought 

Ang. I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me sj)eak 
If my young heart held any preference [offer 
Which would have made me happier ; nor your 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forgo all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passion ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
W^hich taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
"i he dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too hel])less to refuse a state that's honest. 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in 
Your father's choice. [answer 

Ang. I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have 

never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge, I knew my heart would never treat 
you harshly; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years. 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches. 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her ricjht ; mv best friend's 

child, 
W^ould choose more fitly in respect of years. 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

Aug. My lord, I look'd but to my father's 
wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 



Ambitious hopes ne*er cross'd my dreams; 

and should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 
Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true ; 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, aiul mildly paid regard 

i As'a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness, 

i Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little fail 

I ings 

I As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
■ Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
I You had been won, but thought the change 
your choice ; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct— 
A trust in you : — a patriarchal love. 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith, — 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hope for. 
Aug, And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our 
years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I 

trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father 
taught you — [tues — 

To your belief in Heaven — to your mild vir- 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 
Ang. You have done well. — I thank you 
for that trust, 
WMiich I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honor, 

Inmate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Although 'twere wed to him it covets most; 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; 
It is c(^nsistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'u woman must forever fall ; 



4o6 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act ir. 



For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her 
aspect. 

Aug. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in 
others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefor yield 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and [you 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
On such a thing as Steno? 

Doge. You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 

Aug. What is't you feel so deeply, then, 
even now } 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ajig. Alas ! why will you thus consider it .^ 

Doge. I have thought on't till but let me 

lead you back 
To what I urged; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive; and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who 
made [thrones 

Princes at home, and swept kings from their 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

A710, To what does this conduct ? 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his s\veltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our danes in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort. 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang But he has been condemn'd into cap- 
tivity, [acquittal ; 

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him : 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang. With me, my lord .? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
Have let this prey upon me, till I feel 
My life cannot be long ; and fain would have 
vou 



Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll] giving her a paper] fear not ; 

They are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

A?(g. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honor'd still by me : but may your days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present ! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what vou 
were. 
Doge. I will be what I should be, or be 
nothing ; 
But never more — oh ! never never more, 
0*er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
Mellowing the last hours as the night ap- 
proaches, 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to ask, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd 
To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 
Her servant, though her chief — I would have 

gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied 
Would I had died at Zara ! [me. — 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A dav. 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age ; 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for fortune to have granted onee, 
That which scarce one more favor'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should remember it } — Farewell,' 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet. 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hast- 

Aftg. Remember what you were. [ens. 

Doge. It were in vain ! 

Jov's recollection is no longer joy, 
While sorrow's memorv is a sorrow still. 

Ang. At least, whatever may urge, let me 
implore 
That you will take some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
Had I not ho])ed that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slum- 
bers thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshened strength. 

Doge. I cannot — ■ 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



407 



I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful ; yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no 
Adieu, my Angiolina. [matter. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert 

made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine. 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep 

vale [shadow. 

Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that 

stirring 
Within, above, around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing [member ; — 
Which would not have thee mourn it, but re- 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

\Exeiint. 

Scene II. — A retired spot near the Arsenal. 
Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late 

/. Ber. Why, well. [complaint ? 

Cal. Is't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 

/. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what } a mulct or an arrest ? 

/. Ber With death— 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counseird you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes, and for one sole draught of 
hate forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands 

stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood. 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 
For their requital — but not only his ; 
We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. [boast. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. Thank Heaven you were not — all 
had else been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 



Cal. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

/. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas 
To think of justice from such hands. [idle 

/. Ber. At least 

It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. [Council 'i 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to 
him t 

I. Ber, You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. Why not now t 

I. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get 
your musters. 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow. 
Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial. 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed 
new life 
Into my veins ; I'm sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal with them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or free- 
dom ! 
I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

/. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the 
grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty } 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up t)ie number. 

/. Ber. No matter; we can do without. 
Whose are they ? [whom 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem 
all those 
Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentrated spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt 
them. 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Ber- 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal [tram 



4o8 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act II. 



To enterprise like ours ; I've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a vil- 
lain's. 
/. Bar. The truly brave are soft of heart 
and eye, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not 
A soul more full of honor [breathe 

Cal. It may be so ; 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber, Such ties are not 

For those who are calTd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the ofte — 
We must resign all passions save our pur- 
pose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if w^e fail 

/. Ber, They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore 
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though 
ILlapse , and others share as dark a doom, [year 
They but augment the deep and sweeping 

thoughts 
Which overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom: what were we, 
If Brutus had not lived } He died in giving 
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout all time, 
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his high friend were 

styled 
*' The last of Romans ! '' Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's 

ooze 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than those swoln silkworms 

masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things. 



Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in readiness; 
To-day I have not been the usual round. 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care ; these 

orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment. 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with 
arms } [there are some 

Cal, All who were deem'd trustworthy; 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause. 
But needs must on with those who will sur- 
round them. 
/. Ber. You have said well. Have you re- 
mark'd all such t [chiefs 

Cal. I've noted most; and caused the other 
; To use like caution in their companies. 
I As far as I have seen, we are enough 
' To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
' Commenced to-morrow; but, till 'tis begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 
/. Ber, Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted 
■ Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, [hour, 
i And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
j Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
; Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 
I Cal. We will not fail. 
I /. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I I have a stranger to present to them. 
i Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret } 
I. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your 
friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not } 
I, Ber. I have risk'd no man's life except 
my own — 
Of that be certain ; he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power ! he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us; but he will not swerve. 
Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know- 
Is he one of our order .^ [him] 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit. 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one [one— 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great 

changes ; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



409 



Valiant in war, and sage in council : noble 
In nature, although haughty; quick, yet wary ; 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury. 
In Grecian story like that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge : 
And add too, that his mind is liberal. 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all. 
We have need of such, and such have need of us. 
• CaL And what part would you have '^im take 

7. Ber, It may be, that of chief, [with us ? 

CaL What ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

/. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well. 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd 

me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till [such 
Some worthier should appear: if I have found 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy,think 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, [you 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better : but you all shall 

judge.— 
Away ! and let us meet at the lix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. [ever 

CaL Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief ; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been. 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell. 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. 

\Exe7int, 



ACT III. 

Scene I : — Scene, the Space between the Canal 

and the Chtirch of S ait Giovannie San Paolo. 

An equestrian statue before it. — A Gondola 

lies in the Canal at some distance. 

Enter the DoGE alone, disguised. 

Doge {solus'X. I am before the hour, the hour 
whose voice. 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
The palaces with ominous tottering. 
And rock their marbles to' the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 



Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city I 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood 

which makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny: the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
And therefore was I punish'd seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on. 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers. 
And I am tainted and must wash away 
The plague spots in the healing wave. Tall 

fane ! [shadow 

Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold 
Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold [blood. 
In one shrunk heap what once made many 

heroes, 
When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our 

house ! 
Vault where two Doges rest — my sires! who 
The one of toil, the other in the field, [died 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape, [state 
Till all thine isles be peopled with the dead. 
And pour them from thy portals to gaze on 

me ! 
I call them up, and them and thee to witness 
What it hath been which put me to this task — 
Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of 

glories. 
Their mighty name dishonored all /;/me, 
Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 
And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
Who perish'd in the field, where I since con- 
Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs [quer'd, 
Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 
By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 
Spirits ! smile down uj3on me ; for my cause 
Is yours, in all life now can be of yours — 
Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
Free and immortal, and our house's name 
Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter i 

E7iter Israel Bertuccio. 

/. Ber. Who goes there t 

Doge. A friend to Venice, 

/. Ber. 'Tis he. 

Welcome, my Lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your as- 
sembly, [pleased to see 

/. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts [pell'd .'' 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dis- 

Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 



410 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[Acr irr. 



Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason, — Start 

not! 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forebore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

/. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most 

unmerited 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge We ! — We ! — no matter — you have 
earn'd the right 
To talk of 7CS. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to her tombs, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret plot, although to a good end, 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider 
thus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. Ber We observed ! 
Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses ; look there — 
What see you } 

/. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no.? 

/. Ber. My lord, these are mere phantasies; 
No eyes in marble. [there are 

Doge But there are in Death. 

I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in [felt; 

Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief. 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure 
With stung plebeians ? [graves 

/. Ber. It had been as well 



To have ponder'd this before, — ere you em- 

bark'd 
In our great enterprise — Do you repent 1 

Doge. No — but I fcei, and shall do to the 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once, [last. 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some 

pause : 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 
And knowing zuhat has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress; the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such, 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
WMiich I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 

Doge. - On — on — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. [peal 

/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising 
Of triumph. — 'This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeii7it. 

Scene II. — T/ie House where the Conspirators 
meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Tre- 

viSANO, Calendaro, Antonio dele 

Bende, &c., &c. 

Cat. [entering]. Are all here ? 

Dag. All with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
W^ho is expected momently. 

Cat. Where's Bertram .'* 

Ber, Here ! 

Cat. Have you not been able to complete 
The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have 
not dared 

To trust them with a secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cat. There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith ; 7i<ho, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent.? they think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory,* 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well 

flesh'd, 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow !ip 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for verv shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perish'd 

* An historical fact. See Appendix, Note A. 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



411 



Ber, How say you ? all I 

CaL Whom vvouldst thou spare ? 

Ber, I spare? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even amongst these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

CaL Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun, 
In their last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, 1 should think as 

soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, 

one body; [gether ; 

They eat, ^id drink, and live, and breed to- 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one I 

Dag. Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit, 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

CaL Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber, Who 

Distrusts me ? 

CaL Not I : for if I do so, 

Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust ; 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know, 

W^ho hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppres- 
sion : 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no. 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have 

seen me 
Put to the proof : or,if you should have doubts, 
I'll clear them on your person ! 

Ca^' You are welcome, 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. [not 

Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear mvself 
As far among the foe as any here 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ; but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and the 
sight 



Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps 

is not 
Tome a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram, 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands: we'll wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 

Enter ISRAEL Bertuccio and the Doge, dis- 
guised. 
Dag. Welcome, Israel, 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, 
thou art late — 
Who is this stranger t 

CaL It is time to name him. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known [him 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
Such is our trust in all thin6 actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

/. Ber, Stranger, step forth ! 

\The Doge discovers hifnself. 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the 

Doge ! 

Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, 

The tyrant he hath sold us too. [and 

CaL \dr awing his sword. \ Hold ! hold! 

Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! 

hear 
Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you i* — Israel,speak ; what means this 
mystery ? [own bosoms, 

/. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives [hopes. 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their 
Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death 
more fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here: — Oh noble Courage! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you 

brave 
Against this solitary hoary head ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and 

dread 
At sight of one patrician ! — -Butcher me ! 
You can, I care not, — Israel, are these nien 



412 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act III. 



The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon 
them ! [servedly. 

Cal. Faith ! he hath shamed us, and de- 
Was this your trust iu your true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest? 
Sheath them, and hear him. 

/. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like 

mine 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power, 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
'I'hey might be certain that whoe'er was 

brought 
By me into this counsel had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 
Doge. And which am I to be } your actions 
leave [choice. 

Some cause to doubt the freedom of the 
/. Bcr. My lord, we would have perish'd 
here together. 
Had these rash men proceeded; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's im- 
pulse, [such 
And droop their heads : believe me, thev are 
As I described them. — Speak to them. 

Cat, Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. [are safe, 

/. Ber, [addressing the co7tspirators?[ You 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here, 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
l^residing in the hall of ducal state, 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians, 
Why I was there you know, or think you know; 
Why I am here^ he who hath been most 

wrong'd, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged, and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, mav answer for me. 
Asking of his own heart what brought him here? 
You know mv recent story, all men know it, 
\\m\ judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital— it is here, 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
Would only show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge 
you. [vices 

Our private wrongs have sprung from public 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth, 



Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor 

people, 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
The Lords of Lacedaemon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although dress'd out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves 

to form 
A pastime for their children. You are met 
To overthrow thi's monster of a state, 
This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
Which must be exorcised with blood, — and 

then 
We will renew the times of truth and justice, 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
Not rash equality but equal right§. 
Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
And making firm the whole with grace and 

beauty, 
So that no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 
And I would rather fall,by freemen's hands 
Than live another day to act the tyrant 
As delegate of tyrants : such I am not, 
And never have been — read it in our annals ; 
I can appeal to my past government 
In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
If I were an oppressor, or a man 
Feeling and thinking of my fellow-men. 
Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
A sceptic of all measures which had not 
The sanction of *' the Ten," a council-fawner, 
A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I 

suffer 
Has reached me through my pity for the peo- 
ple ; 
That many know, and they who know not yet 
Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 
Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 
My present ]jower such as it is, not that 
Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 
Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
And still has individual means and mind, 
I stake my famefand I had fame) — my breath — 
(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 
My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this 

cast ! 
Such as I am, I offer me to you. 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



4t3 



And to your chiefs ; accept me or reject me, 

A Prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing,and who has left his throne to be so. 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be 

Consp, Long live Faliero ! [free ! 

/. Ber, Comrades ! did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you t [been 

CaL Ay, and the first among us, as thou hast 
Of Venice— be our general and chief. [Zara, 

Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general at 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in 
I cannot stoop — that is, I am not fit [Venice ; 
To lead a band of — patriots : when I lay 
Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point , 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my 
friends } 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

Doge, At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon .'* 

Doge. So soon? — so late — each hour accu- 
Peril on peril, and the more so now [mulates 
Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 
The Council, and ** the Ten " ? the spies, the 

eyes 
Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 
And now more dubious of the prince they have 

made one .'* 
I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
Full to the Hydra's heart— its head will follow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, [assent; 
And all now under arms by Israel's order; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. When you hear 

The great bell of St. Mark's which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege theyleave their prince), 
March on St. Mark's ! 

/. Ber. And there } 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the w-ay let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern'd before the port ; form around the I 
palace, • 

Within whose court will be drawn out in arms j 
My nephew and the clients of our house, \ 



Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on. 
Shout ye " St. Mark ! — the foe is on our 

waters ! " 
CaL I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
Doge. All the patricians flocking to the 

Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud 

tower). 
Will then be gathered in unto the harvest, 
And we will reap them with the sword for 

sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be but to be taken faint and single. 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we 

will not scotch, 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter } 
CaL All who encounter me and mine, be 
The mercv thev have shown, I show. [sure, 
Consp. ' ' All ! all ! 

Is this a time to talk of pity? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

/. Ber. Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the inno- 
cent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body. 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart ; 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 

Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such 
Decide yourselves. [a question. 

/. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly ; if there be amongst 

them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce, 
Doiie. Dolfino's father was my friend, and 

Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 



414 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act III. 



My Genoese embassy; I saved the life 

Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 

Would that I could save them, and Venice also! 

All these men, or their fathers,\vere my friends 

Till they became my subjects; then fell from 

me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown 

flower, 
All left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish 1 
Cal. I'hey cannot co-exist with Venice' 

freedom ! [mutual mass 

Doire. Ye, though you know and feel our 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institute of Venice : 
All these men were my friends : I loved them, 
Requited honorably my regards ; [they 

We served and fought ; we smiled and w^ept 

in concert ; 
We reveird or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage; 
We grew in years and honors fairly, — till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then 

farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old 

friendships ! 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone 

by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
Of deeds that else were silent,save on marble — 
Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 
/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is 

not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Doge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour they made me Doge, the Doge 

THEY made me — 
Farewell the past! Idled to all that had been. 
Or rather they to me; no friends, no kindness, 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such approach gave 

umbrage : 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 



They thwarted me, *twas the state's policy ; 
They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 
They wrong'd me, for such was to right the 

state ; [suspicion. 

They could not right me, that would give 
So that I was a slave to my own subjects; 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for 

power — 
With pomp for freedom, gaolers for a council, 
Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
I had one only fount of quiet left, [gods 

And that they poison' d ! My pure household 
Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their 

shrine 
Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
/. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, 

and now shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 
Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I 

bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction 'd; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, 

long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys 

make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure — and be 

broken ! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have wo private life. 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from 

others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words : I'd fain be 

doing ! 
Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me 

wakeful ! [and vigilant ; 

/, Ber. Disperse then to your posts: be firm 

Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we 

claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band 5 let each be prompt to mar- 
shal [turn 
His separate charge ; the Doge will now re« 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



415 



We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my 
homage to you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No; let him be reserved unto the 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey [last, 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption, generated 
By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
He dared not in more honorable days 
Have risk'd it. I have merged all private 

wrath 
Against him in the thought of our great 

purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 
CaL Yet, as the immediate cause of the 
alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits; may I } 
Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I 
the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate, 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must 

blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' 
ashes. 
/. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I but 
remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 
CaL Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 
/. Ber. Success go with you. 

Consp. We will not fail — Aw^ay ! My lord, 
farewell ! 

\The Conspi7'ators salute the DoGE and 
Israel Bertuccio, and retire, 7/^^^- 
^^/^j Philip Calendaro. 7)^^ Doge 
and Israel Bertuccio remain. 

I Ber. We have them in the toil— it can- 
not fail ! 
Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt 

make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest: 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
Caesars have fall'n, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel . 
Has reach'd patricians : but, until this hour, 
What prince has plotted for his people's free- 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects } [dom ? 



Forever, and forever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
N'ot glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise — 'tis great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt .•* 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 
Doge. And is it then decided ! must they die '^ 
I Ber. Who > 

Doge. My own friends by blood and cour- 
tesy, 
And many deeds and days — the senators ? 
/. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is 

a just one. 
Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebels' oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not — you act in your vocation ; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and de- 
spised you ; 
So they have me : but you ne'er spake with 

them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their 

salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up wath them, nor laugh'd nor 
Nor held a revel in their company ; [wept. 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd 

their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I 

have. 
These hairs of mine are grey, and so are theirs 
The elders of the Council ". I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood } 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 
/. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is 
unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me, By heavens ! 

I'd rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weak- 
ness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others; can you shrink 
then [pires, 

From a few drops from veins of hoary vam- 
Who but give back what they have drain'd 
from millions .'* [blow on blow, 

Doge. Bear with me ! step by step, and 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver 



4i6 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act IV 



Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all [thus. 

Which I must do doth make me tremble 
Hut let these last and lingering thoughts have 

wav, [scious, 

To which you only and the night are con- 
And both regardless: when the hour arrives, 
Tis mine to sound the knell and strike the 
Which shall unpeople many palaces, [blow, 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding 

fruit, 
And crush their blossoms into barrenness ; 
This will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear 

with me. 
/. Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such 

remorse, 
I understand it not ! why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act, on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and killing, do no murder ; 
You y^^/ not — you go to this butcher work 
As if these high-born men were steers for 

shambles ! 
When all is over you'll be free and merry, 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be, [true. 
Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! 'tis 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
*' My own free will and act," and yet you err. 
For I ivill do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will. 
Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is hell within me and around, [bles. 
And like the demon who believes and trem- 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not, St. Mark's great bell shall wake 

all Venice, 
Except her slaughter'd senate: ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic there [drown 

Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
I am resolved — come on. 

/. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which 

hath wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people. 



Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
Doge. Man thou hast struck upon the 
chord which jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

\Exeimt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Palazzo of the Patrician LlONi. 
Lion I laying aside the mask and cloak 
which the Venetiajt Nobles wore in public^ 
attended by a Domestic. 

Lio7ii. I will to rest, right weary of this 
revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 
And yet, I know not why, it cheered me not ; 
There came a heaviness across mv heart, 
Which in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me. 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow-; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not be ; 
Though all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Through low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night. 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark: 
So that I felt the festival before 
It reached its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. Yes, my lord ; 

Command you no refreshment.'* 

Lio7ti. Nought, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me 
hope it. [^^7/ Antonio. 

Though my breast feels too anxious, I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 'tis 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew ' 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What; 
astillness! [ Goes to a n open lattice. 

And what a contrast with the scene I left, 
When the tall torches glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, , 
Sproad over the reluctant gloom which haunts i 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light. 
Which showed all things, but nothing as they.. 
There Age essaying to recall the past, [were. 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



417 



Prank'd forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Belie v'd itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought 
of such - [health, 

Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise 

streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which 

should not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine, — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flow^ers,— 
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments, — 
The while arms and the raven hair — the braids 
And bracelets; swanlike bosoms, and the 

necklace. 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and 

heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylph- 
like. 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
Its false and true enchantments; art and nature. 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
Are gone. Around me are the stars and waters; 
Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass; 
And the great element, which is to space 
What ocean is to earth,spreads its blue depths, 
Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring; 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, [fronts, 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly 
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles. 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less 

strangely 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian'fabrics, [have 
Which point in Egypt's plains to times that 
No other record. All is gentle : nought 
Stirs rudely : but, congenial with the night, 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 
A nd cautious opening of the casement. showing 
That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 



Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 

So delicately white, it trembles in 

The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 

To let in love through music, makes his heart 

Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; the 

dash 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 
And the responsive voices of the choir [verse ; 
Of boatmen answering back with verse for 
Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering 

spire. 
Are all the sights and sounds which here per- 
vade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the 

throng, 
I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 
Of thy benign and quiet influence. 
Now will I to my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this. 

[A knocking is hgard f7'077i 7vithoiit. 
Hark ! what is that } or who at such a moment ? 

Enter Antonio. 
Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent 
Implores to be admitted. [business 

Lioni. Is he a stranger } 

Ant. His face is muftled in his cloak, but 
both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me : 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious 
bearing ! 
And yet there is slight peril ; 'tis not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at: still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him and retire; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 
Exit Antonio, and returii with Bertram 
tnttfifled. 
Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou, — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with 
you. 
Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, 
Antonio. [Exit Antonio. 

Now, stranger, what w^ould you at such an 
hour } 
Ber, [Discovering himself.'] A boon, my 
noble patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 



mS 



MARINO FALIERO. DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act IV. 



Lioni Thou hast known me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
l)cseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was Heard, but that the hour, 
rhy bearing, and this strange and hurried 

mode 
('>f suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurr'd, some rash and sudden 

broil ?— 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab, — 
Mere things of every day : so that thou hast 
Stilt noble blood, 1 guarantee thy safety; [not 
liut then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
/vnd relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber My lord, I thank you, but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save 
He who has shed patrician blood [thee ! 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged 
And is about to take, instead of sand, [sword, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour- 
glass ! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 

But do as I implore thee; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring; though the roar of 

crowds — 
The cry of women and the shrieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the 

sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Teal in one wide alarm ! — Go not forth, 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return. 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of bless'd,in hope or memory— 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
Bv all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder, 



Surely thou ravest ! what have /to dread? 
Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
Art thoii leagued with them ? — thoti ! or if so 

leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth in spite of this true warn- 
ing ? 
Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle 
threats. 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 
Lio7ii. I am. Nor is there aught which shall 

impede me ! 
Ber. Then, Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! 
— Farewell ! {Going, 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my 
own safety 
Which makes me call thee back; we must not 
Bertram, I have known thee long, [part thus: 
Ber, From childhood, signer, 

You have been my protector ; in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets. 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember, 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears,were mingled 

oft; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and 
this ! * [them. 

Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten 
Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you; when to manhood's 

growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble, 
Still thou forsook me not; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
j Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
I When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
I Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
I Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow-senators were like thee! 
Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against 
Ber. Nothing. [the' senate ? 

Liojti. I know that there are angry spirits 
And turbulent muttcrers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians. 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 



SCENE 1.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



419 



Tliou hardest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice,' and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 
Lioiii. Som.e villains have been tampering 
with thee, Bertram ; 
This is not thy own language, nor own 

thoughts ; 
Some wretch has made thee drunk with dis- 
affection : 
But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good,. 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villainy would put thee to ; 
Confess — confide in me— thou knows't my 

nature — 
W^hat is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 
So that our good-will is a heritage 
We should bequeath to our posterity 
Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
I say, what is it thou must do, that I [house 
Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the 
Like a sick girl ? 

Ber, Nay, question me no further ; 

I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say. 

Was it not thus thou saidst, my gentle Ber- 
tram ? 
Ber. Who talks of m.urder } what said I of 
murder ? — 
'Tis false, I did not utter such a word. 
lioni. Thou dids't not ; but from out thy 
wolfish eye, [forth 

So changed from what I knew it, there glares 
The gladiator. If my life's thine object, 
Take it — I am unarmed — and then away! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy 
taskwork. 
Ber, Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Ber- 

I am not worthy to be singled out [tram, 

From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 

That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

Ber, Venice, and all that she inherits, are 



Divided like a house against itself, 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 
Lio7ti .More mysteries, and awful ones. But 

now, 
Or thou, or I or both it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark 

too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering 

people } 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here ! 
Ber. Is there no way to serve thee t minutes 

fly, 

And thou art lost ! — thou ! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honor ! 

Lioni. Where 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder t 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more 
binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for 

law ; 
And in my mind there is no traitor like 
He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 

Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

Ber. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die ! and think how 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, [dear 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be [more 

The assassin thou miscall'st me : — once, once 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 

Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 

Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my 
friend ! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather, thy friend's saviour and 
the state's ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again ; it must not be — ' 
I love thee — 



I 



420 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act IV. 



Thou know'st it — that I stand here is the 

])roof, 
Not least.though last ; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell ! — we meet no more in life ! — fare- 
well ! 
Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — to the 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! — [door 

Entei- Antonio aitd otJier armed Domestics 
who seize Bertram. 
Lioni [conti?tHes.] Take care 

He hath no harm — bring me my sword and 

cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro ; — fear not, Ber- 
This needful violence is for thy safety, [tram, 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ;" 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lio?ti. What mean you ? — but we'll know 

anon. 
Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; 
and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten " and their tri- 
bunal, 
And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the 
A rack. [dungeons 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such 

word 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 
Ant. The bark is ready. 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeinit, 

Scenf: II. — T:^^ Ducal Palace.— The Doge's 
Apartmeitt. 

The Doge and his N'ephew^ Bertuccio 
Faliero 

Dooe. Are all the people of our house in 
muster .•* 

Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the 
signal, 

Within our palace precincts at San Polo * 

* The Doge's family palace. 



I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got to- 
gether 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

/>Vr. F. Methinks, my lord, 'tis better as it is; 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion; and, though fierce and 
The vassals of that district are too rude [trusty. 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintain 'd 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has 
been given, 
lliese are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their prejudice agai7ist ox for this noble. 
Which may induce them lo o'crdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce 

peasants, 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding cf their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a P'oscari ; 
They are not used to start at those vain names, 
Nor bow the knee before a civic senate; 
A chief in armor is their Suzerain, 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well. 

The die is thrown; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peas- 
ants : 
They made the sun shine through the host ot 
Huns [tents, 

When sallow burghers slunk back to their 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious 

trumpet. 
If there be small resistance you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard: 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish, with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you 
To strike the blow so suddenly. [resolve 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly 

yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days. 
I was most fain to strike ; and firstly that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or the faith ; 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



421 



To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 
They must on for their own sakes : one stroke 

struck, 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they have commenced, 

but //// 
That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow. 
Are capable of turning them aside, — 
How goes the night ? 

Ber. F, Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge, Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in 
person. [to rest 

Doge, 'Tis well. — Will the morn never put 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the 

heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up. and being so. 
The very effort which it cost me to [fire, 

Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have 

wept 
And trembledat the thought of this dread duty; 
But now I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the growing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : [been 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsmen ?) it hath 
A greater struggle to me, than w^hen nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where [fight, 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former 
wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay round me : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and 

trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 



I 



Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are tilings 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong. 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air 

puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me 
The sea looks greyer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the 

palace [meet you — 

With all our house's strength ; here I will 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same mo- 
ment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
I would not trust "the Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still '^ Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint Mark and Liberty ! " — Now — now to 

action ! 
Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we 

will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 
Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one 

embrace — [soon 

Speed, for the day grows broader — send me 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — 

sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's! 

{Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge [sohis]. He is gone. 

And on each footstep moves a life. 'Tis 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er [done. 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial. 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey. 
And for a moment, poised in middle air, 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. Thou 

day ! [march on-^ 

That slowly walk'st the waters ! march— 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea 

waves ! 
I have seen you died ere now. and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious : 



422 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF \ EX ICE, 



[act IV. 



Now thou must wear an unmix' d crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me bless- 
ings, 
And fame, and length of days — to see this 

day? 
But this day, black within the calendar, 
Shall be suceeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown; 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means 
The noble end must justify them — What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours, 
Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous. — Oh 

world ! 
Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs, 
That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 
And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
When a few years would make the sword su- 
perfluous ? 
And I upon the verge of th' unknown realm. 
Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
I must not ponder this. \A pause. 

Hark ! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? [raise ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower 

portal 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last 
Sound till the strong tower rock ! — What ! 

silent still ? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be the centre of re-union to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering or the weak, in case of conflict; 
F'or if they should do battle, 'twill be here. 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken: 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The mastcr-niovcr, Hark! he comes — he 

comes, 



Mv nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he sped ? 
They here ! — all's lost — yet will I make an 
effort. 



Enter a SiGNOR OF the Night, with 
Guards^ &^Cy ^c, 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason .'' — Who are they that 

dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 

Sig. [showifig his order']. Behold my order 
from the assembled Ten. [sembled ? no 

Doge. And where are they, and why as- 
Such council can be lawful till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

Sig. Duke ! it may not be : 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me, then ? 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully : 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as now applied, 
Rebellious. —Hast thou weigh'd well thy life's 

worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 

Sig. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard upon thy person. 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge, [aside]. I must gain time. So that 
the storm bell sound. 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed 

— speed ! — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Woe to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and 
Or slaves and senate — (people, 

[ The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 
[Aloud]. Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, 

ye hirelings. 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 
It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion ! 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all's 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon, [lost 
The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose. 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with 
me. 

[Exit part of the Guard, 



SCENE II.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



423 



Doge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy 
vile life, implore it; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth; 
They never shall return. 

Sig, So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I- [game 

Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 

Sig. And learn thou to be captive. — It hath 

ceased, [ The bell ceases to toll. 

The traitorous signal, which was to have set 

The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 

The knell hath rung,, but it is not the senate's ! 

Doge [after a pause]. All's silent, and all's 
lost! 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and earn'd the 
price [thee. 

Of blood, and they who use thee will reward 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thousaidst even now — then do thine office, 
But let it be in silence, as behoves thee, 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank: in this I shall obey you. 

Doge [aside']. There now is nothing left me 
save to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen. 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 

To miss it thus ! — 
Enter other SiGNORS OF THE NiGHT, with 
Bertuccio Faliero prisoner. 

2nd Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

jst Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

2nd Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; 
the chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 

Ber F. Uncle! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 
The glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! 
one moment sooner ! [face of ages ; 

Doge. That moment would have changed the 
This gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 



But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together, 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

ist Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate cham- 
bers, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. [up 

Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us, 
As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice. — Who hath been 
our Judas t 

jst. Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 

Ber. F I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain 
Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what 
vile tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, 

was cast 
From the Tarpeian. 

1st Sig, He aspired to treason. 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 
But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

ist Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now re- 
move you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 

Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet 

go forth, [fail'd in ! 

And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath 

They cannot quench the memory of those 

Who would have hurl'd them from their 

guilty thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though 
distant. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — The Hall of the Council of Ten 
assembled with the additiojial Senators, 
who, Oft the Trials of the Conspirators for 
the Treason of Marino Faliero. com- 
posed what was called the Giunla. — 
Guards, Of/icers, cSr^r., ^c. — Israel Ber- 
tuccio aitdVU-WAV Calendaro as Prison- 
ers. — Bertrm, Lion I, a^td Wit7tesses, Ec* 



Ik' 



424 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act 



The chief of the Ten, Benentende. 
Ben. There now rests, after such conviction 
Their manifold and manifest offences, [of 

But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
The sentence of the law; a grievous task 
To those who hear, and those who speak. Alas! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office should be stigmatized through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 

'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous 

Frank ; 
A city which has open'd India's wealth 
To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
O'erwhelming Attila; the ocean's queen; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'Tis to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless 
So let them die the death [lives — 

/, Ber. We are prepared; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 
Bejt. If ye have that to say which would 
obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time ; perhaps it may avail ye. 
/. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
Be7i. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstances can add to aid 
them. [plete 

Yet we would hear from your own lips com- 
Avovval of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive } 

I. Ber, Justice ! 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 
Ben. You are brief, sir. 

/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 

To brave your judges to postpone the sentence? 

I. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe 

I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon, [me 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

/. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have 

wrung from us, [blood left, 

Or place us there again ; we have still some 

And some slight sense of pain in these 

wrench'd limbs: 
But this ye dare not do : for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 



Upon your engines, gorged with pangs al- 
ready — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appal your slaves to further 

slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent. 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
For a short respite — must we bear or die? 
Ben, Say, who were your accomplices ? 
/. Ber. The senate I 

Ben. What do you mean ? 
/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to 
Ben, You know the Doge ? [crime. 

/. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, \\\\^\\yon were pleading here your 
To present office ; we exposed our lives [way 
While you but hazarded the lives of others. 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's 
insults. 
Ben. Y'ou have held conference with him ? 
/. Ber. I am weary — 

Even wearier of your questions than your tor- 
tures 
I pray you pass to judgment 

Ben. It is coming. 

And you, too, Phiiip Calendaro, what [dooni'd ? 
Have you to say why you should not be 

Cal. I never was a man of many words, 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 
Ben. A further application of yon engine 
May change your tone. 

CaL Most true, it will do so ; 

A former application did so; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 
Be7t. What then? 

Cal, Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 
Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Who e'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up 

to trial. 
Cal. And on this testimony would he perish ? 
Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life [dent ! 
Cal. Then look wellto thy proud self, Presi- 
For by the eternity which yawns before me 
I swear that thon^ and only thou, shall be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 
I One of the Giiinta. Lord President, 'twere 
! best proceed to judgment ; 

There is no more to be drawn fromthcse men. 
I Ben. Unhappy men 1 prepare for instant 
death. 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



425 



-^^ 



The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's 

respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be justified; and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
To the full view of the assembled people ! — 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

The Gmnta. Amen ! 

/. Ber, Signors, farewell ! we shall not all 
Meet in one place. [again 

Ben. And lest they should essay | 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd even in the 
Of execution. Lead them hence ! [act* 

Cal. What must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, such interviews would be 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. [least 

CaL I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
That in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
Would not now be denied to us; but since 

/. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave 
Calendaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
Without the slightest show of favor from them; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are 
ready — 

Cal. Israel, hast thou but hearken'd unto me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
The coward Bertram, would 

/. Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ! 

Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task; 'twas forced upon me: 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus 

/ Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

CaL [spitting at him]. I die and scorn thee I 

[Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro, Gnards, <5^c. 

* Historical fact. See Sanuto, Appendix, Note A. 



Ben. Now that these criminals have been 
disposed of. 
'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any animals, the Doge Faliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure; shall 
He now be called in to receive the award .'* 

The Giufita. Ay, ay. 

Be7i. Avogadori, order that the Doge 

Be brought before the council. 

07te of the Giunta. And the rest. 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. When all the chiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to 

Chiozza; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the DoGE as Prisoner with Guards; 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the 
law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown 

more noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honor. 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 
Who made you what you are, and quench in 

blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length. 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appear'd against you ; and more 

ample 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence } 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many; but 

The first now stands before you and the court, 
Bertram of Bergamo, — would you question 
him ? 

Doge, [looking at him contemptuously]. No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge, 

Doge. And where are they? 



426 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act v. 



Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on 

earth. 
Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius for the Arsenal ? — 
How did they meet their doorn ? 

Ben. I'hink of your own : 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then } 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognize your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law ! 

Be)i. On great emergencies 

The law must be remodell'd or amended; 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor 

thought 
In their great bosoms; who would have fore- 
seen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires and princes 'gainst their 

realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught trai- 
As would with treason mount to tyranny; [tors, 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye .'* 
What's nobler than thesignory of Venice .-* 
Doge. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd 

me — 
Yoii—yoii, who sit there traitors as ye are 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action. 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 
Yon singled me out like a victim to 
Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the 

altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not, 
I sought not, — wish'd not, — dream'd not the 

election. 
Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 
To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents 
You had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
And mutilated the few privileges 
Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
By the pollution of your ribaldry. 
And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 

Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Ben. \i7iterrnpti7tg h'nn\. Michel Stcno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty; '' the Ten " having craved 



A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present: he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates 1 {there 

Doge, His PUNISHMENT ! I'd rather see him 
Where he now^ sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, [tice 

Which your foul, outward, juggling show of jus- 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'Twas purity compared with your protection. 

Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of 
Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honors on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance .'* 

Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last 
drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was 

full 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in 

both: 
The price of such success would have been glo- 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name [ry. 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed and flourish'd ages after, 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus ; — 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; 
Till then the truth is in abeyance. Pause not; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs : 
Now you may flock round mine and trample 

on it. 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Be7i. You do confess then, and admit the 
Of our tribunal ? [justice 

Doge I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our 
equity .-* [questions. 

Doge. Noble Venetians! stir me not with 
I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 



SCENE I.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



427 



I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no 

echo : 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have 

tongues ; and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap 

them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay 

me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves ; 
What you would hear from me of good or evil. 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape 
Such my defence would be, had 1 full scope 
To make it famous, for true words are things^ 
And dying men's are things which long outlive. 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye w^ould fain survive me ; take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing, — defend nothing, — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

Doge. The torture ! you have put me there 

already. 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your 

engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

Ben, Say, conscript fathers,* shall she be 
admitted ? 

One of the Gmnta. She may have revela- 
tions of importance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
W^ith her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ? 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 



* The Venetian senate took tlie same title as the 
Roman of " Conscript Fathers." 



The Duchess enters. 

Ben. Lady! this just tribunal has resolved. 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect [tues ; 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and vir- 
But you turn pale— ho ! there, look to the lady ; 
Place a chair instantly. 

Ang. A moment's faintness — 

'Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, — I sit not 
In presence of my prince and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady t 

Ajig. Strange rumors, but most true, if all 

I hear 

And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 

To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 

The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing, 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
W^ith eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 

Be7t. {after a paiise'\. Spare us, and spare 
thyself the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 

Is he condemned.'* 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty } 

Be7i. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the 

question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep offence. But question even the 

Doge, 
And if hp can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so } [friend — 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's 
The mighty in the field, the sage in counsel. 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art 
silent ! 

Ben. He hath already own'd to his own 
guilt. 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. 

Ang^ Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his' 

few years, [days ! 

Which grief and shame will soon cut down to 

One day of baffled crime must not efface 

Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben. His doom must be fulfill'd without re- 
Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. [mission 

A7ig. He hath been guilty, but there may be 

Be7i. Not in this case with justice, [mercy. 

Ang. Alas ! signer, 

IJe who is only just is cruel ; who [justly ? 
Upon the earth would live were all judged 



42S 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act v. 



Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 
Aug. He was a subject, and hath served the 

state : 
He was your general, and hath served the state : 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 
One of the Council. He is a traitor, and be- 

tray'd the state. [no state 

A)io. And, but for him, there now had been 
To save or to destroy ; and, you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters! 
One of the Council. No, lady, there are 

others who would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery. 

Aiig. If there are so 

Within these walls, thou2,xt not of the number : 

The truly brave are generous to the fallen: — 

Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. [tur?ting to the £>o^e.] Then die, 

Faliero ! since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 
Half cancelled'd by the harshness of these ;nen. 
I would have sued to them, — have pray'd to 

them,— 
Have begg'd as famished medicants for 

bread, — 
Have wept as they wnll cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer, — 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom. 
Do^e. I have lived too long not to know 

how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villainies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

Michel Steno. F)oge, 

A word with thee and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
Jiut since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contri- 
tion 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 
Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of 

Venice, 
I .si:)eak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's 

daughter, 



Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is: would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in m.ine, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for that 
Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is called 
A good name for reward, but to itself. 
To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
Unto the rock: but as there are — alas ! 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
Light as the w^hirlwind on the waters; souls 
To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
More terrible than death, here and hereafter; 
Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 
And who, though proof against all blandish- 
ments 
Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 
When the proud name on which they pinna- 
cled [eagle 
Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the 
Of her high aiery; let what we now 
Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
With beings of a higher order. Insects 
Have made the lion mad ere now^ ; a shaft 
I' the heel overthrew the bravest of the brave ; 
A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy ; 
A wife's dishonor unking'd Rome forever ; 
An injured husband brought the Gauls to 
Clusium, [time; 
And thence to Rome, which perished for a 
An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish prov- 
ince ; 
And Steno's lie, couch'd in tw'o worthless 

lines. 
Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless 

head. 
And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 
Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
If it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him ! 
But let him not insult the last hours of 
Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 
Nothing of good can come from such a source, 
Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor 

ever ; 
We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 
And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
And no resentment : things like him must 

sting. 
And higher beings suffer; 'tis the charter 



SCENE I.] 



MARIKO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



439 



Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 
May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no 
anger ; [worms 

'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are 
In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Doge. \to Beji,] Signor ! complete that which 

you deem your duty. 

Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 

Aug. I know it will, and yet I must endure it. 
For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit, 
Except by force,my husband's side. — Proceed 1 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
Though my heart burst it shall be silent. — 

Speak! 
I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by rhe state withhigh employments. 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
When thou art noted in our calendars 
With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 
And the great enemy of man, as subject 
Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in 

snatching 
Our lives and country from tliy wickedness. 
The place wherein as Doge, thou shouldst be 
With thy illustrious predecessors, is [painted. 
To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 
Flung over these dim words, engraved be- 
neath — 
" This place is of Marino Faliero, 
Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. *' His crimes " — 

But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted 

name. 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand 
portraits • Ipii'^gs — 

Which glitter round it in their pictured trap- 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
*' Decapitated for his crimes ! " — IVhai crimQS ? 
Were it not better to record the facts, 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 



Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will 
judge [nounce. 

Their fathers' judgments, which I now pro- 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap. 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giant's Stair- 
case, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck off ; and Heaven have 
Upon thy soul ! [mercy 

Doge. Is this the Giuntas' sentence .'* 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it. — And the time .'* 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy peace 
with God. 
Within an hour thou must be in His presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed 
Are all my lands confiscated t [it. — 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kinds of treas- 

sure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. That's harsh. — I would have fain re- 
served the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Beit. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy 

nephew, 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signors, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, 

know 
I am devoted unto God alone, 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death } 

Be7i. You have nought to do, except confess 
and die. 
The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all, 
Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the gates, 
But these are closed : the Ten, the Avoga- 

dori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom. 
And they are ready to attend the Doge, 

Doge. The Doge ! 



430 



MAILING FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



[act v. 



Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou 
shalt die 
A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The separation of that head and trunk. 
That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we, 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt 

fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath and regal fierce- 
ness, 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation ; 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such forever, on the self-same spot — 
Guards! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

\^Exeuiit, 

Scene II. — The Doge'' s Apa7'tment, 

The Doge as Prisoner^ and the DuCHESS 

atte7idi7ig hi?n. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere 
useless all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; [thee, 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

A7tg. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious 

cause : 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union. 
Which thou, compliant with thy father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd 
thine own. 

Doge. Not so ; there was that in my spirit ever 
W'hich shaped out for itself some great reverse; 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

ATig. How foretold you ? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a 
doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals: 
W^hen I was in my youth, and served the senate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young 

anger. 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply [him. 
To my reproof : I raised my hand and smote 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burthen; 



And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards 
Heaven. [from him, 

Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen 
He turn'd to me and said, " The hour will come 
W^hen He thou hasto'erthrown shall overthrow 
thee: 
I The glory shall depart from out thy house, 
j The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 
I And in thy best maturity of mind 
! A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee, 
I Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
j In other men, or mellow into virtues: 
And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honors 

shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 
Aiig. And with this warning couldst thou 
not have striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone, 
By penitence, for that which thou hadst'done.^ 
Doge. I own the words went to my heart, 
so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
W'hich shook me in a supernatural dream ; — 
And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would not fear. Nay, 

more, 
Thou canst not have forgot,what all remember 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
Unwonted density went on before 
The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud 
Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
The custom of the state to put to death 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

A7tg. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge- And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought, that these things are the v.'orkof 

Fate : 
For I would rather yidd to gods than men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny. 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust. 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'erruling power ; they in themselves 
W^ere all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them. 
A7ig. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 



SCENE III.] 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



43t 



Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy flight to 
Heaven. 
Doge. I am at peace : the peace of cer- 
tainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons* 

sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 
A7ig. Speak not thus now : the surge of 
passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last: thou dost de- 
ceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpably as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Guard \comi7tg forward.'] Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 
Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one em- 
brace — 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband — love my memory 
I would not ask so much for me still living, 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and 

name, 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not 
A little love, or friendship, or esteem, [even 
No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
From ostentatious kinsmen; in one hour 
I have uprooted all my former life. 
And outlived everything, except thy heart. 
The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief, 
Still keep — Thou turn'st so pale — Alas ! she 
faints, [your aid — 

She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as 

mine 

Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks — I am ready now. 

[The Attendants of Angiolina enter, 

and surround their Mistress, who has 

fainted. — Exeunt the DoGE, Guards 



Scene \l\.— The Court of the Ducal Palace ; 

the outer gates are shut against the people 

— The Doge enters in his ducal robes, in 

processioji with the Council of Te7i and 

other Patricians^ attended by the Guards, 

till they arrive at the top of the *' Giants^ 

Staircase " {where the Doges took the 

oaths) ; the Executiojier is stationed there 

with his S7vord. — Oji arriving, a Chief 

of the Te?i takes off the ducal cap froin 

the Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at 

I am again Marino Faliero: [last 

'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 

Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness. 

Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble. 
Than I received the fntal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 
Doge. 'Tis with age, then.* 

Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to 
commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate ? 
Doge. I would commend my nephew to 
their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard of crime. 
Doge. Unheard of ! ay, there's not a his- 
tory 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free, 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
Ben. And who were they who fell in such 

a cause ? 
Doge. The King of Sparta and the Doge 
of Venice — 
Agis and Faliero 

Ben. Hast thou more 

To utter or to do } 

Doge. May I speak ? 

Ben. Thou may'st; 

But recollect the people are without. 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 

* This was the actual replv of Bailli, Maire of Paris, 
to a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on 
his way to execution, in the earliest part of their revolu- 
tion. I find in reading over (since the completion of this 
tragedy), for the first time these six years, Venice Pre- 
served, a similar reply on a different occasion by Re- 
nault, and other coincidences arising from the subject. 
I need hardly remind the gentlest reader that such coin- 
cidences must be accidental from the very facility of 
their detection by reference to so popular a play on the 
stage, and in the closet, as Otway's chef-d'oeuvre. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



[act IV. 



I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit [banner, 
Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my 
Ve winds I whicli flutter'd o'er as it you loved 

it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were 

watted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for I and thou, foreign earth, 
Which drank this willing blood from many a 

wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will re- 
ceive it ! [Thou ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and 
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ' — At- 
test ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged : far ages 
Fh)at up from the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before they close, the 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse [doom 
On her and hers forever ! — Yes, the hours 
Are silently engendering of the day, 
When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, 
Unto a bastard Attila, without 
Shedding so much blood in her last defence. 
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her 
Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
And sold, and be an appanage to those 
Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 
A province for an empire, petty town 
In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
l>eggars for nobles, panders for a people ! * 

* Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader look to the historical of the period prophesied 
or rather of the few years preceding that period. Vol- 
taire calculated their " nostre bene vieriie -nieretrici''^ at 
12,000 of regulars, without including volunteers and 
local miiitia, o 1 what authority I know not; but it is 
perhaps the only part of the population not decreased. 
Venice once contained 200,000 inhabitants ; there are 
now about 90,000, and these ! Few individuals can con- 
ceive, and none could describe, the actual state mto 
which the more than infernal tyranny of Austria has 
piunged this unhappy city. From the present decay and 
d-generacy of Venice under the Barbarians, there are 
some lionorable individual exceptions. There is Pas- 
qualigo, the last, and, alas! posthjunous son of the 
niairiage of the Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his 
frigate with far greater gallantry than anv of his h rench 
coadjutors in the memorable action offLissa. I came 
home in the squadron with the prizes in 181 1, and recol- 
lect 10 have heard Sir Wiiliam Hoste, and the other 
officers engaged in tiiat glorious conflict, speak in the 
highest terms of Pasqualigo's behavior. There is the 
Abbate Morelii. There is Alvise Querini, who, after a 
long and honorable diplomatic career, finds some con- 
solation for the wrongs of his country, in the pursuits of 
hterature with his nephew, Vittor Henzon, the son of 
the celebrated beauty, the heroine of " La Biondina in 
Gondoletta." There are the patrician poet Morosini, 
and the poet Lamberti, the author of the *' Biondina," 
&c., and many other estimable productions; and, not 
least in an Englishman's estimation, Madame Michelh, 



Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 
Tiie Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for 

his!* 
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sov- 
ereigns, [sovereign. 
Even in the palace where they slew their 
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or 

sprung 
From an adultress boastful of her guilt 
With some large gondo'ier or foreign soldier, 
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
To the third spurious generation ; — when 
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 
Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the 

victors. 
Despised by cow::irds for greater cowardice, 
And scorn'd even by the vicious for such 

vices 
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
Defy all codes to image or to name them : 
Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject king- 
All thine inheritance shall be her shame [dom, 
Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 
When all the ills of conquer'd states shall 

cling thee. 
Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, t 
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 
Depraving nature's frailty to an art: — 
When these and more are heavy on thee. when 
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without 

pleasure, 
Youth without honor, age without respect, 
Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st 

not murmur, t 

the translator of Shakspeare. There are the young 
Dandolo and the improvisatore Carrer, and Giuseppe 
Albrizzi, the accomplished son of an accomplished 
mother. There is Aglietti, and, were there nothing el.«;e 
there is the immortality of Canova. C'icognara, Mus- 
toxithi, Bucati, &c., &c. I do not reckon, because the 
one is a Greek, and the others were born at least a 
hundred miles off, which, throughout Italy, cojistitutes, 
if not Tiforeia^Jier^ at least a stranger {/orestiere). 

* The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
Jews, who, in the earlier times of the Republic, were 
only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city 
of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands of the 
Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the garrison, 

t See Api">endix, Note C. 

X If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to 
the followmg, made by Alamanni, two hundred and sev- 



SCENE r.j 



MARTiVO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 



Have made thee last and worst of peopled 
Then in the last gasp of thine igonv, [deserts, 
Amidst thy many murders, think of 7?iine ! 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of 

princes ! * 
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
Tims I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

Here the Doge iurfis and addresses the 

Executiojier, 

Slave, do thine office ! 

Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 

Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as mv 

Strike — and but once ! [curse! 

VEheV>OG'£.thro7vs himself tipo7t his knees, 

and as the Execuiio?ier raises his szvord 

the scene doses. 

Scene W ,— The Piazza and Piazzetta of St, 
Mark's.— The people in crowds gathered 
round the grated gates of the Ducal Palace, 
zvhich are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and 

can discern the Ten, [Doge. 

Robed in their gown s of state, ranged round the 

enty years ago ;-'' There is one very singular prophecy 
concerning Venice ; * If thou dost not change,' it says to 
that proud republic, ' thy liberty, which is already on 
the wing, will not reckon a century more than the thou- 
sandth year. If we carry back the epocha of Venetian 
freedom to the establishment of the government under 
which the repubhc flourished, we shall find that the date 
of the election of the first Doge is 697 ; and if we add one 
''r'nTi''? thousand that is, eleven hundred years, we 
f T^i vu ^^'^ ^^?^^ ^^ ^^^ prediction to be literally this : 
Thy liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Ven- 
- f^^/f sed to be free m the year 1796, the fifth year of 
. t.ie J^rench republic; and you will perceive that there 
never was prediction more pointed, or more exactly fol- 
lowed by the event. You will, therefore, note as very 
remarkable the three lines of Aiamanni added to Venice • 
which, however, no one has pointed out :— 

* Se non cangi pensier, un secol solo 
Non contera sopra'l millesimo anno 
Tua liberty, che va f uggendo a volo. ' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
have been called prophets, for much less."~GiNGUENK, 
J-fist. Lit. de r Itahe, t. ix. p. 144. 

v.. ^I'a^ ^^^\ ^^^y ^^g^^' fi^e abdicated, five were 
banished with their eyes put out, five were massacred, 
?l'rnn'"K Pf^^' I'' ^1'?^ nineteen out of fifty lost the 
^^? y/'''^^"''^ ^^^'^^s two who fell in battle-this 
One n7h,-i°"^ previous to the reign of Marino Faliero. 
dn n 1-^ T'^ immediate predecessors, Andrea Dan- 
a. rp'l.tl!? a''^''^^'''"^^^""^ ^^^'^''o himself perished 
hk cir! Amo"gst his successors, Foscari, after seeing 

and dT./'?'if' ^f >' ^^''^^^ ^"^ banished, was deposed, 
and died of breaking a blood-vessel, on hearing the bel 
of bamt Mark;s toll for the election of his successo I 
Morosini was impeached for the loss of Candia ; but this 
tTie CZ"' '""a '"' ^"l^^do",, during which he cmiquered 
•millu tr'i; say, "" '''''^ ^'^ Peloponnesian. faliero i 
*' Thou den of drunkards with the blood of Princes! " t 



433 



Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine 
utmost effrrt 
How is it .? let us Lq- at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 
First Cit, One ha^^anproached the Doj^e 
and now they strip ' 

The Ducal bonnet from his head— and now 
He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move— Hush ! hush 

— no, 
'Twas but a murmur— Curse upon the dis- 
I tance ! 

j His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
I Swells up like mutter'd thunder: would we 
j But gather a sole sentence ! [could 

I Second Cit. Hush! we perhap:j lisy catch 
I the sound. 

( First Cit. Tis vain, 

i 1 cannot hear him.— How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upcn the wave ! 
Now— now— he kneels— and now they form a 

circle 
Round him, and all is hidden— but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 

I The people murmtir. 
Jhtrd Cit. Then they have murder'd him 

who would have freed us. 
Fourth Cit, He was a kind man to the com- 
mons ever. [portals barr'd. 
Fifth Ctt, Wisely they did to keep their 
Would we had known the work they were 

preparing 
Ere we were summoned here— we would have 

brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 
Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall— Lo ! what 
have we here } 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts 
St. Mark's Place a Chief of the Ten,* 
with a bloody sword. He waves it thrice be- 
fore the people, and exclaims, 

''Justice hath dealt upon the might v 
Traitor ! " ^ 

IThe gates are opened; the populace rush 
in towards the " Giaftts' Staircase^' where 
the execution has taken place. The fore- 
most of them exclaims to those behind, 

''The gory head rolls down the Giants* 
Steps ! " 

[The curtain falls. 



* Un Capo de' dieci are the words of Sanuto's Chron- 
icle. 



SARDAN A PA L U S: 

A TRAGEDY. 
1821. 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A 

LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION 

WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED, 

SARDANAPALUS. 



PREFACE. 



In publishing the following Tragedies- I have only to repeat, that they were not c«"^^^f,^,^;\^,^,^,^^Xs 
remote view to the stage. On the attempt made by the managers in a former instance, the public ^P'^'^lPf 
beTn already expressed^ With regard to my own private feehngs, as it seems that they are to stand for nothing, 

^ ^^Flrth^h^istofical foundation of the following compositions the reader is referred to the Notes 

The AuthThas in one instance attempted to preserve, and in the other to approach, the unities ; ' conceiv- 
ing that 4l any verv distant departure from them, ther. may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of 
the unpopSarhy' of this notion in present English literature ; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an 
opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature throughout the world, and is still so m the more m- 
Tzedlkns of it. But nous avlns change tout cela, and are reaping the advantages of the change. The writer 
s far from conceiving that anvthing he can adduce by personal precept or example can at all approach his regu- 
L or even -rregular, predecessors; he is merely giving a reason why he preferred the more regular formation of 
a structure" howlver feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure 
is in the architect,— and not in the art. 



MEN. 
SARDANAPALUS, King of Nineveh and As- 
syria^ &c. 
Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the throjie. 
Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salem EN ES, the King s Brother -in- Lata. 
Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
Pania. Zames. Sfero. Balea. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

W^OMEN. 

Z\K\i^K,the Qneen. 

Myrrh A, att Ionia7i female Slave, afid the 

Favorite 0/ Sard A^AV ALUS,. 
Women composing the J/arem ^Sardanapa- 

LU S, Guards, A t ten da fits, Chaldean > 

Priests, Medes, &c., &c. 



Scene.— ^ Hall in the Royal Palace of Xinr.<eh. 



In this tragedvitbas been my intention to follow the account of Diodorus Siculus; reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as 1 best could, and trying to approach the unities. 1 therefore suppose the rebellion to 
explode and succeed in one day by a sudden cor.spiracy, instead of the long war of t he history. 



^Sardcuiapaltis and The Tivo Foscaru 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



435 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — A Hall in the Palace. 
Salemenes \solus\ He hath wronged his 

queen, but still he is her lord; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my 

brother : [sovereign, 

He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies. 
Repress' d by circumstance,but not destroy'd — 
Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuous- 
ness, 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reachM an empire: to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage ! — 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only being that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
And saps his goodly strength in toils which 

yield not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

\So2ind of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the 

lute, 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women. 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
While the great king of all we know of earth, 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by, to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the perfumed trains. 
And see the bright gems of the glittering 

girls. 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen — . 
He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front 

him, [other, 

And tell him what all good men tell each 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the 

slaves 
J Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



Scene II. 



Enter Sardanapalus, effemittately dressed^ 
his Head crowned with Flowers^ and his 
Robe negligently flowing^ attended by a 
Train of Women andyonng Slaves. 

Sar. Let the pavillion over the Euphrates 
[Speaking to so?ne of his attendants. 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there : see nought 

wanting. 
And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear 
river ; [deign 

We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as 

theirs ; 
Till then let each be mistress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian''^ Myrrha, chose 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

Myr, My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou 
so coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say 

wouldst thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine. 

Sar. I pray thee say not so ; my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art 

still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others 
Myr. I would remain ; I have no happi- 
ness 

Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar, Yet .'what YET 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. \comes forward and saysi\ The Ionian 

slave says well : let her retire. 
Sar, Who answers .'* How now, brother ? 
Sal, The queen's brother. 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
Sar. [addressing his train']. As I have said 
let all dispose their hours 



* ''The Ionian name had been still more comprehen- 
sive, having included the Achaians and the BcEotians, 
who, together with those to whom it was afterv\'ards con- 
fined, would make nearly the whole of the Greek na- 
tion : and among the Orientals it was always the general 
name for the Greeks." Mitford's Greece, vol. i.p 199. 



436 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act I. 



Ti 



midnight, when again we pray your pres- 
ence. [ rhe court retiring. 
[ To Myrrha, 7uhoisgoing\ Myrrha ! I thought 
thou wouldst remain. 

Myr, Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it : 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire ! your brotlier 

Sal. His consorfs brother, minion of Ionia! 
How darest thou name ??te and not blush .? 

Sar, Not blush } 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make 

her crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, [ows 

Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shad- 
And then reproach her with thine own cold 

blindness, 
W^hich will not see it. What! in tears, my 
Myrrha ? 

Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more 
than one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears 
to flow ! [already. 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that 

Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make me not 
I am a monarch. [remember 

Sal. W^ould thou couldst ! 

Afyr. My sovereign, 

I pray,and thou, too, prince, permit my absence, 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has 
check' d 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet; I had ratherlose 
An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. It may be 

Thou wilt lose both, and both forever! 

Sar. Brother. 

I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this: yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'Tis beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
Which I would urge thee. O that I could 
Though 'twere against myself. [rouse thee ! 

Sar. • By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. So thou art. 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains } The despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury, — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth— produce ten thousand tyrants. 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master. 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 



Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that 

whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last theyrather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why, what makes thee the mouth-piece 
of the people ^ [wrongs ; 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen's, my sister's 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
In more than words; respect for Nimrod's line; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar. What's that > 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting 

trumpet ; 
I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme,then hear 

Sar. From whom ? [of vice. 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice, [listen 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, 
patient, 
As thou hast often proved — speak out, what 

Sal. Thy peril [moves thee .-* 

Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me ? What would the slaves } 

Sal. A king. 

Sar. And what 

Am I then.^ 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what 
would they have .^ 
Have they not peace and plentv ? 

Sal. 'Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps', who provide no better .'' 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er 
looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious 

Baal! 

Who built up this vast empire, and wertmade 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



437 



Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and 

peril ! 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel. 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sa7-. I understand thee — thou wouldst have 
\ me go 

li^^orth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
vVhich the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their 
And lead them forth to glory. [wishes, 

Sal. Wherefore not ? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how return'd ? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she 
Good her retreat to Bactria. [made 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures t 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar, Then I will say for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty 

guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves and men — the fiercer of the three. 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same 
fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou mighfst 
sway. 

Sar. I S7vay them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your 
sceptre. [not } 

Sar, There was a certain Bacchus, was there 
I've heard my Greek girls speak of such— they 
lie was a god, that is, a Grecian god, [say 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
Who conquer'd the same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was van- 
quish'd. 

Sal, I have heard of such a man ; and thou 
perceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godship I will honor him — 
Not much as man. What, ho 1 my cupbearer } 

Sal. What means the king ? 

Siir. To worship your new god 

And ancicnc conqueror. Some wine, I say. 



k 



Enter CUPBEAREK. 
Sar. {addressing the CUPBEARER.] Bring 
me the golden goblet thick with gems, 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. 

Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. 

{Exit Cupbearer. 
Sal, Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels } 

Re-enter Cupbearer with wi?ie. 

Sar. [Taking the cup from him.] Noble kins- 
man, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this 

Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not ? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few 
columns 
Which may be his and might be mine, if I 
Thought them w^orth purchase and convey- 
ance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is his title 
To immortality — the immortal grape 
From which he first express'd the soul, and 

gave 
To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, he would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
Here's that which deified him — let it now 
Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother. 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar, That is to say, thou thinkest him a 
hero, 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
Because he turned a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes weariness forget his toil. 
And fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well , then / 

pledge thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind, [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar, And if I did, 'twere better than atrophy^ 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose ; since thou wilt not pledge 
Continue what thou pleasest. [me, 

[7a the CUPBEARER.] Boy, retire. 

[ £'.r//CuPBEAi;LR. 



43^ 



SAKDANAPALUS, 



[act I. 



Sal. I would but have recaird thee from thy 
dream; 
Better by me awakened than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what 
cause ? pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up 
against me } [not. 

Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak 

Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen, 
is't not so } 

Sal. Thi7tk I Thou hast wrong'd her ! 

Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendor of her station, 
Respect, the tutelage of Assryia's heirs, 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignity. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their 

wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. I pray thee change the theme ; my 
blood disdains 
Complaint, and Salamenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love, even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. And why not her brother } 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Which he who long neglects not long will 
govern. 

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! 
they murmur them 

liecause I had not shed their blood, nor led 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of Gan- 
Nor decimated them with savage laws, [ges ; 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concu- 
bines, 
And lavished treasures, and contemned vir- 
tues. 
Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities ; 
There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving bel- 
dame. 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them } 

Sal. 'Tis most true^ ; 

1 own thy merit in these founded cities, 
I'lirlt for a whim, recorded with averse, fagcs. 
\\ liich shames both ihem and ihcc to comini' 



Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though 

well built, 

Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 

Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule, 

But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief 

record. 
Why, these few lines contain the history 
Of all things human: hear — *' Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a 
fillip."* 
Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 
Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless 
set up edicts — 
'' Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bid- 
ding— " 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies, [trophy.' 
These are their sepulchres, and this his 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 



* " For this expedition he took only a smal. chosen body 
of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first day's 
march he reached Anchialus, a town said to have been 
founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. The for- 
tifications, in their magnitude and extent, s*il] in Arrir.n's 
time bore the character of greatness, which the Assy- 
rians appear singularly to have affected in works of the 
kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus was 
found there, warranted by an inscription in Assyrian 
characters, of course in the old Assyrian language, 
which the Geeks, whether well or ill, interpreted thus: 
' Sardanapalus, son of Anacyndaraxes, in one dav 
founded Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, play ; all 
other human joys are not worth a fillip.' Suj^iposing 
this version nearly exact (for Arrian says it was not 
quite so), whether the purpose has not been to invite to 
civil order a people disposed to turbulence, rather than 
to recommend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reason- 
ably be questioned. What, indeed, could be the object 
of a king of Assyria in founding such towns in a country 
so distant from his capital, and so divided from it by an 
immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains, 
and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once in 
circumstances to abandon themselves to the intemperate 
joys which their prince has been supposed to have re- 
commended, is not obvious ; but it may deserve obser- 
vation that, in that line of coast, the southern of Lesrer 
Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, 
I yet barely named in history, at this day astonish the ad- 
venturous traveller by their magnificence and elegance. 
Amid the desolation which, under a singularly bar- 
barian government, has for so many centuries been daily 
spreading in the finest countries of the globe, whether 
more from soil and climate, or from opportunities for 
commerce, extraordinary means must have been found 
for communities to flourish there ; whence it may seem 
that the measures of Sardanapalus were directed by 
juster views than have been commonly ascribed to him ; 
but that monarch having been the last of a dynasty 
ended by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would 
follow of course from the ;^rlicy of his successors atul 
their partisans. I'he inconhistoncy of traditi«»ns coi - 
ceriiitig Sardanapalus is strikir.c, in Diodoius's account uf 
l.ini."— Mitfokd's G/'fcw, voi. ix. p. 311. 312. 3:3. 



1 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



439 



For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungroaning to the tomb : I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We are all men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor 

men. 
Talk not of such to me I the worms are gods ; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
And died for lack of further nutriment. 
These gods were merely men — look to their 

issue — 
I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
But nothing godlike, — unless it may be 
The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
To be indulgent to ^ny own. 

Sal. Alas ; 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — woe 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar, What dost dread? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes ; in a 
few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms 

thee, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sar. The heads — how many ? 

Sal. Must I stay to number 

When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go, 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives 
When we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who 
se«k for thine ? [Yes. 

Sar. That's a hard question — but I answer, 

Cannot the thing be done w^ithout ? Who are 

they [rested. 

Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be ar- 

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the 
next moment [troop. 

Will send my answer through the babbling 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me, 

Sar, Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
Take thou the signet. {Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request. 

Sar. Name it. 



Sal. That thou this night forbear 

the banquet 
Li the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the 
plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst 
thou not, if needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow [and 
And javelin, which might furnish Ninirod forth 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on' t, 'tis long since I've used 

them. 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, 
brother ? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? 
If need be, wilt thou wear them .^ 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turned into a distaff. 

Sal. They say thy sceptre's turn'd to that 
already. [old Greeks, 

Sar. That's false ! but let them say so: the 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize [eigiis. 
Each calumny they can to sink their sover- 

Sal. Thev did not speak thus of thy fathers, 

Sar. ' No ; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and 
combat ; [armor : 

And never changed their chains but for their 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. [license 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank 

tongues 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeling. 
That I shquid prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamor ? 

Sal. You have said they are men 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ; 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumult- 
uous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
Given or received; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch. 



440 



SARDANAPALUS, 



[actjt. 



Not to add to each other's natural burthen 

Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 

By mild reciprocal alleviation, 

The fatal penalties imposed on life : 

But this they know not, or they will not know, 

I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe 

them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit 

them. 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st 

Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks 
to be so. [thou desirest 

Sar. What mean'st thou.-* 'tis thy secret; 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his 

ashes, 
"The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were^ 
But would no more, by their own choice, be 
human. \which 

What they have found me, they belie ; that 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse : and let them thank them- 
selves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake 
that energy [thee, 

Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign. 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

\Exit Salem EN ES. 

Sar. \5olui\. Farewell. 

He's gone ; and on his finger bears ray signet. 
Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless ! and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
I know not : — he hathfound it, let him quell it. 
Must I consume my life — this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less .•* 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
Tracing revolt; suspecting all about me, 
l^ecause they are near ; and all who are remote, 
BccausL- thev are far. liut if it should he so — 



If they should sweep me off from earth and 

empire, 
Why, what is earth or empire of the earth "*. 
I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my 
To die is no less natural than those [image 
Acts of this clay ! 'Tis true I have not shed 
Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name became the synonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophy. But for this 
I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 
Hath flowed for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 
If then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not : 
If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 
Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not 

sceptres, * 

Andmow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 
Making a desert of fertility, — 
I'll think no move. — Within there, ho! 

Etiter an Attendant. 

Sar, Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her pres- 

Attend. King, she is here. [ence. 

Myrrha enters. 

Sar. [apart to ATTENDANT]. Away ! 
[Addressing Myrrha]. Beautiful being ! 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; [me 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let 
Deem that some unknown influence, some 

sweet oracle 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name: 
What is it.? 

]\fyr. In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted : vet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy— 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha /^«j<r J. 

Sar. There comes 

Forever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let mo remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord !- 

Sar. My lord— my king— sire— sovereign ; 
thus it is — 
Forever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 



SCENE II.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



Can see a smile, unless in some broad ban- 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons [quet's 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quaff'd me down to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these 

names. 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I 
prized them ; [nobles ; 

That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and 
1)111 when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a 

chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the false- 
hood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, [me 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of 

My7\ Would that we could ! [flowers. 

Sar, And dost thou feel this ? — Why ? 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou 
canst never know. 

Sar, And that is 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts ^ 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou 
may'st. 

Sar. It will. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath di\iined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne[than I, 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. 

Sar. And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly ; and now 

dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee — '— 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares — 
From Medes — and discontented troops and 

nations, 
I knows not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries ; 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more 
But of the midnight festival. [on't — 

Myr. 'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. — Thou hast 
.Spurn'd his sage cautions t [not 



Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear ? 

Myr. Fear ! — I'm a Greek, and how should 

I fear death ? [dom } 

A slave, and wherefore should I dread my free- 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so 
pale t 

Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ! I love thee far — far 
more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench 
not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor 
For he who loves another loves himself, [me ; 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief 
Assume to win them ? [who dared 

J/rr, Who is he should dread 

To try so much .^ When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 

Sar. Myrrha ! 

Myr. Frown not upon me ; you have smiled 
Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment |ject ! 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your sub- 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved 

you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to mon- 

archs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature. 
Shall I not claim the privilege to save you .^ 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Ihou art very 
fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Myr. And without love, where dwells secur- 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. [ity ? 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's 

breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from 
her lips, [sighs 

Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

8ar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speakst 

music ; 

The very chorus of the tragic song [time 

I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pas- 

Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not— calm 

thee. 

Myr. I weep not.— But I pray thee, do not 
About my fathers or their land. [speak 



442 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[act I 



Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true ; constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; [me. 
But when another speaks of (ireece, it wounds 
iSar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, 
as thou saidst '^ [not 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of breth- 
ren. 
Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war and war- 
riors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure ; what can man 
Do more ! 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and, for a 

king, 
'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 
Sar. And I have never sought but for the 

last. 
Myr. And now art neither. 
Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha .'* 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, ^i'//-love, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law 
Yet not oppressed — at least they must not think 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, [so 

To ward off worse : oppression, their own 
passions. [revel, 

A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 
Sar, Glory ! what's that ? 
Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer: when the priests 
speak for them, 
'Tis for some small addition to the temple. 
Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's 

founders. 
Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I 
cannot. 
But what wouldst have ? the empire has been 

founded. 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
Myr. Preserve thine own. 
Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 

Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates: 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which arc above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 

Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

Myr, Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereigns, 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
^Vho knew no brighter gems than snnnnci 

wreatljs. 
And none but tearless triumphs. 1 .ct iis on. 



E7iter Pan I A. 

Fan. May the king live forever. 
Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity! Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day,at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns, 
lie will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What ! am I then coop'd .'* 

Already captive? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell Prince Sale- 
menes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth, 

Pa7i, I must obey you, and yet 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. — - 

How many a day and moon thou hast re- 
clined 
WMthin these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, 
The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unwor- 

shipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
Till, all, save evil,slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
And for thy son's inheritance "t 

Pan. 'Tis true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred })resence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. No, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. Thes© are mere phantasies : 

There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme a 

Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, J 

And show himself more necessary to us 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious, take 

Sar. Business to-morrow. [this counsel. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar, Why, let it come then unexpectedly, 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than bew itherVl. 

Myr\ Then tlii>ii wilt nut yield, 



SCEN£ 11.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



443 



Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forgo 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr, Then yield for mine ; 

For my sake ! 
Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'Tis the first 

) on which T ever ask'd Assyria's king. 
Sar, That's true, and were't my kingdom, 
must be granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 
Pan. And obey, \Exit Pania. 

Sar, I marvel at thee. 

V/hat is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 
Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that 
nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus nmch from thee, but some impending 
danger. [thou ? 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst 
Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for 

thee, 
Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these 

vain fancies. 
Myr, If the worst come, I shall be where 
none weep, 
And that is better than the power to smile, 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr, Where ? 

Sar, With Baal, Nimrod, and Semira- 

Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere, [mis, 
Fate made me what I am — may make me 

nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 
Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade 
thee. 
Sar, And w^ho will do so now ? 
Myr, Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. Oh ! 
we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain 

words, 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, 

deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly ; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border, 
Here we are still unmenaced . Ho ! within 
there ! \^Exit Sardanapalus. 

Myr. \sola.'\ Why do I love this man ? my 
country's daughters 
Luve none but heroes. Bui 1 have no country ! 



The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love 

him; 
And that's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were 

baser 
Than tP have stabb'd him on his throne when 

highest 
Would have been noble in my country*s creed : 
I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him better, but myself; 
And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stran- 
ger; 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling 

long 
'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, 

and triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my 

sight \Exit. 

ACT II. 

S:ene I. — The Portal of the same Hall of 
the Palace, 

Beleses \soliis\. The sun goes down ; me- 
thinks he sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
How red he glares amongst those deepening 

clouds, 
Ivike the blood he predicts ! If not in vain, 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time 

tremble 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the 

furthest 
Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how ca/m ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, [fall — 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of what 
Scem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sun ! 
The burning oracle of all that live. 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity t Why not 
Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 



444 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[aci' I r. 



All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
A beam of hope athwart the future years, 
As of wrath to its days? Hear me ! oh, hear 

me ! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 
And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day 

beams, • 

Waen my eye dared not meet thee. I have 

watch'd 
Vox thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd 

thee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — but 
Only to thus much : wnile I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowl- 
edge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious .^ 'Tis a sunset ; 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces by an inner door. 

Arb. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
(xazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day .'' 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arb. Let it roll on — we are read v. 

Bel. • Yes : 

Would it were over! 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory-but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. Mean- 
time 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cap which he drains will be the last 
Quaff'd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — 

Bel. Art sure of that? [we'll mend it. 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up? 
Why .si)ur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bx'l. Look to the sky ! 



Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 

Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so 

quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well! 

Bel. 'Tis thv natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. [touehing his scabbard]. Nfy star is in 
this scabbard : when it shines. 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we con- 
quer, [thou 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and 
Shalt be the pontiff of — what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou 
Seen me turn back from battle. [hast not 

Arb. No; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
As skilful in Chaldea'S worship : now, 
Will it but please thee to forgot the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both? 

Arb. The better; 
And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conquerer. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; [steel, 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it: 

He has that in him which may make you strife 

yet ; [hardy. 

And were he all you think, his guards are 

And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arb. They'll not resist. 

Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True, 

And therefore need a soldier to command 

Bel. That Salemenes is. [them 

Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that gov- 
erns, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council-there he is ever constant. 

Arb. And ever thwarted : what would you 
have more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning. 
His blood dishonor'd, and himself disdain'd : 
Whv, it is /lis revenge we work for. 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



445 



Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so: this I doubt of. 
Arb. What, if we sound him ? 
Bel. Yes — if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! 1 he king commands your 
The feast to-night. [presence at 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb, How! in the palace? it was not thus 

BaL It is so order'd now, [order 'd. 

Arb. And why ? 

Bal, I know not. 

May I retire ? 

Arb. Stay. [way. 

Bel, \to Are. aside. ^ Hush ! let him go his 
{Alternately to Bal.] Yes, Balea, thank the 

monarch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was't midnight } 

Bal, It was: the place, the hall of Nimrod. 
Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. 

\Exit Balea. 

Arb, I like not this same sudden change of 
place, 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he 
change it } [a day .^ 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou 
muse .'* 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion — it was 
ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it not. 

If he has changed — why, so must we : the 

attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken cour- 
But in the hall of Nimrod [tiers ; 

Bel, Is it so } 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb, When the hour comes 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily 

play'd for : 



But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel, I have foretold already — thou wilt 
win it : 
Then on and prosper. 

Arb. Now, were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them nor their interpreter. Who's here } 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps ! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. ' Well met — I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 

Arb. The hour — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord } 

Sal. What are you not invited.'* 

Bel, Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal, Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation } 

Arb, Why — we but now received it. 

Sal, Then why here } 

Arb, On duty. 

Sal. On what duty > 

Bel, On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the pres- 
ence, 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal, And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb, May we crave its purport } 

Sal, To arrest two traitors. Guards ! 
Within there ! 



Enter Guards, 



Satraps, 



Sal. [continuingi. 
Your swords. 

Bel. {deliver ing his\. My lord, behold my 
scimitar. 

Arb, {drawing his sw or d\. Take mine. 

Sal. {advancing\. I will. ^ 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — \ 

The hilt quits not tliis hand. | 

Sal. {drawing]. How! dost thou brave me? 
'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 

Alone you dare not. 

Sal. Alone foolish slave — 

What is there in thee that a prince should 

shrink from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength: thy tooth is naught without its 

venom — 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 



44^ 



SARDAXAPALUS. 



[act II. 



Bel. {^interposing.'] Arbaces 1 are you mad ? 
Have I not render'd 
My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's 
justice. 
Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou 
prat'st of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body — so far'that 
None else shall chain them, 

SaL \to the Guards]. You hear him and 7ne. 
Take him not — kill. 

[The Gjmrds attack Arbaces, ivho 
dcfcjids himself valiantly and dex- 
terously till they ivaver. 
Sal. Is it even so ; and must 

I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

Salem ExNEs attacks Arbaces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sar, Hold your hands — 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunk- 
en } ' [fellow, 
My sword ! O fool, I w^ear no sword : here, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 
[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from 
one of the soldiers and makes be- 
tween the combatants — they sepa- 
rate. 
Sar, In my very palace ! 
What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

Bel. Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or— 

Your weakness. 

Sar. [raising the sword.] How ? 
Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I'm content. 

Sar. What — him ! 

Who dares assail Arbaces.^ 
Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yonrself. Upon what 
warrant } 
Sal. [showing the signet.] Thine. 
Arb, [confused.] The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. I parted not from this for such a pur- 
pose. 
Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheath 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their 
swords to the scabbards. 



I Sal. Mine's sheath'd ; I pray you sheath not 
yours : 
'Tis the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my 
hand. 
[To a Guard.] Here, fellow, take thy weapon 

back. Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean .-* 

Bel. The prince must answer that. 

Sal, Truth upon my part, treason upon 
theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery ar.d 
That were an union I will not believe. [Beleses 

Bel. Where is the proof? 

Sal. I'll answer that, if once } 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 

Arb. [to Sal]. A sword which hath been 
drawn as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now^ against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against himself, [no — 

Sar. That is not possible : he dare not ; 
No — I'll not hear of such things. — These vain 

bickerings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and 

baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will answer all. 

Sar. Why, if I thought so — 

But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best cap- 

Of all who discipline our nations No, [tain 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 

The scimitar to me he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief keep your weapon. 

Sal. \deliveri7ig back the signet]. Monarch, 
take back your signet. 

Sar. No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal, Sire 

I used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it. 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the 
prince [none 

So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom 
Have been more zealous for Assvria's weal. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless 
soldier ! thou 
Unitest in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS. 



447 



k 



Keep thy smooth words and juggh'ng homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellows' sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not tempered 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

'Bel. Hear him, 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them — 
ashes. 

Bel. King ! do not deem so : they are with 
And [the stars , 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will 

rise, [son. 

If vou preach further. — Why, this is rank trea- 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released— 
Give him his sword. 

Sal, My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray you pause. 

Sar. Yes, and be sermonized. 

And dinn'd and deafenM with dead men and 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. [Baal, 

BeL Monarch ! respect them. 

Sar. Oh ! for that — I love them ; 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they mav 

be P 

Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor 

care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it— nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 
When they shine on my grave I shall know 
neither. 

Bel. For neither sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowl- 
edge. 
In the meantime receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

Sal. [aside]. His lusts have made him mad. 
Then must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar, Please you to hear me, Satraps ! 



And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt 
thee [all 

More than the soldier : and would doubt thee 
Were thou not half a warrior : let us part 
In peace — I'll not say j^aidon — which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty ; this I'll not pronounce 

ye, 

Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier tCfr ye'^on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 
And so live on. Were I the thing some think 
me [drops 

You heads would now be dripping the last 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace, into the dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that 

pass. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty. 
Nor (loom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they are now, were 
Once honest. Ye are free. sirs. 

A7'd. Sire, this clemency 

Bel. {interrupting hi??i]. Is worthy of your- 
self ; and, although innocent, 
We thank 

Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for 
His offspring needs none. [Belus ; 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent. — Guilt is loud. If ye are 
loyal. 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not 
grateful. 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always 
done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 

Sar. That's a good sentence for a homily. 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his 
people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause ^ perhaps, 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note. 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and 

heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not 
spare him [Satraps ! 

Were they once masters — but that's doubtful. 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 



44S 



SARDANAPALUS, 



[act II. 



I have no call for either. Salemenes I 
Follow me. 

\Exeujit Sardanapalus, Salemenes, 
iuid the Train ^ dr'r., leaving Arbaces 
and Beleses. 

Art. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now, what think you ? 

Arb, That we are lost. 

BeL That we have won the kingdom. 

Arb. What } thus suspected — with the 
sword slung o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To be blown down by liis imperious breath 
Which spared us — whv, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval [same — 

The hour is still our own — our power the 
The night the same we destined. He hath 

changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. And yet 

BeL What, doubting still } 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more. 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare } till the first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly; 
Gave royally what w^e had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps, 

But it has touch'd me. and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the w^orld ! 

Arb. Lose anything except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to 
such 
A king of distaffs! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ! 

And I should blush far more to take the 
grantor's ! 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou 
Have written otherwise [wilt — the stars 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their bright- 
I would not follow. [ness, 

Bel. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead. 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as 
he s]:)oke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
And sways, while they but ornament, the 
temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much 
despised him, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 



What then } he is the, nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner. — Would he had not spared us ! 
Bel. So— 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily.^ 

Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
l^han live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ; 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason. 
and [clii', 

Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the suU- 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say .'* — Sardanapalus ! 
I know no name more ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly— as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 
Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the 
kingdom, 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly ? 
I Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
; You may do your own deeming — you have 
i codes. 

And mysteries, and corollaries of 
! Right and wrong, which I lack for my direc- 
tion, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart 
teaches, 
. And now you know me. 

I Bel. • Have you finish'd .^ 

■ Arb. Yes — 

i With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
As quit me ? 

Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought, 
And not a soldier's 

Bel. Be it what ycm will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me 
Arb. ^ ^ No- 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bd. If it must be so — 

I'll on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fill'd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces: 
I have still aided, cherish'd, lov^ed and urged 

you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 



SCENE I.j 



SARDANAPAL US, 



449 



Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her savior or the victim of her tyrant, 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one; 
And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arb, Your servant! 

Bel, Why not? better than be slave, 

The pardon' d slave of she Sardanapalus ! 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 
Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obey'd; 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. \aside'\. Ay! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor, which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that the hour exceeds not. . 

\^Exit Pania. 

Bel. Now then obey! 

Arb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our pris- 
No further. [on — 

Arb, Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 
The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves! 

Arb. If I thought so, this good sword should 
One more than mine. [dig 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let me hope better than thou augurest; 
At present, let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence. 

Arb, Why, what other 
Interpretation should it bear? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword — 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless 

Bel. But will not, can not be so now. 



Arb, I doubt it. 

iHow many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties. 
Whose tombs are on their path! I know not 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was [how, 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
The journey. 

Arb. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates, 

It may be. 

Bel. No; they hardly will risk that. 

They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls. 
Where we are known, and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my 
life [ism alarm' d 

Bel. Fool! hence — what else should despot- 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

Arb. Towards our provinces? 

BeL No; towards your kingdom. 

There's time, there's heart, and hope, and 

power, and means. 
Which their half measures leave us in full 
Away! [scope. — 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt! 

BeL Self-defence is a virtue, 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say! 
Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and 
choking, [hence! 

And the walls have a scent of night-shade — 
Let us not leave them time for further counsel. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal; 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort. 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence: 

Nay, there's no other choice, but hence, I 

say. 
\Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalus a7id Salemenes. 

Sar, Well, all is remedied, and witl ;. 
bloodshed, 
That worst of meckeries of a remedy; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Sal, Ves, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have nie do? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon? 

Sal, Replace the crown now tottering on your 

Sar. That were tyrannical. [icmples. 

Sal. But sur. . 

«9 



450 



SARDANAPALUS, 



[act II. 



Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier?' 

Sal. They are not there yet — never should 
Were I well listen'd to. [they be so, 

Sar. Nay, I have listen'd 

Impartially to thee — why not to them? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter; as it is, 
I take my leave to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer: 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

Sar, Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those 
who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart? 

Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Sale- 

menes. 
My brother, my best subject, better prince 
Than I am king. You should have been the 

monarch. 
And I — I know not what, and care not; but 
Think not I am insensible to all 
Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind, 
Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. 
If I have spared these men against thy counsel. 
That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
The advice was sound; but let them live: we 

will not 
Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound 
Which their death had not left me. [sleep, 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep forever, to save traitors — 
A moment's j^ang now changed for years of 
Still let them be made quiet. [crime. 

Sar. Tempt me not; 

My word is past. 

Sal, But it may be recall'd. 

Sar. 'Tis royal. 

SaL And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies? 

SaL True; that I had forgotten; that is, 
sire, 
If they e'er reach'd their satrapies — why, then, 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar, And if 

They do not reach them — look to it! — in safety, 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

^*l. Permit me to depart; 



Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then; 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 

Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sover- 
eign. \^Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. \solus\. That man is of a temper too 
severe; 
Hard, but as lofty as the rock, and free . 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers: 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, tis on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes 

pleasure; 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To count its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at time* 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be 
And here comes Joy's true herald, [joyous— 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr. King! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace? 

Sar. Tempest, say'st thou? 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
And watch the warring elements; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, 

Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their 
As auguries of Jove. [voices 

Sar. Jove! — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder. 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, — and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Myr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will 
not go forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thouwouldst not hear. 
The ^v>A% 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAFAL US. 



451 



Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so; these walls 

Are high and strong and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way. 
And massy portal; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle 

sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king. 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm; 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Banish'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then? 

Sar. So sanguinary? Thou ! 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life; were't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange; 

The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'Tis a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll noneon't; or 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha,this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 'tis fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. 

Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love. 
Nor of my attributes; I have shared your 

splendor. 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myr- 
But this the gods avert! I am content [iads: 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel. 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs. 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love 
exists. 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare awav. Let's in — 



The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests who grace our feast. 

\Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — The hall of the Palace illuminated 

— SardanapA-LUS and his Guests at Table. 

— A storm without, and Thunder occasion- 
ally heard during the Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full; why, this is as it should be; 
here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair. Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Za7n. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, 
pleasure sparkles. [huntings, 

Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of king- 
She could not keep when conquer'd? [doms 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy royal line have been. 
Yet none of these who went before have 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who [reach'd 

Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true 
glory. [glory 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
Enjoyment! We have cut the way short to it. 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes. 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace,who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that? I have heard other- 
Some say that there be traitors. [wise; 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so! — 'Tis impossible. 
What cause? 

Sar. What cause ? true, — fill the goblet up ; 
We will not think of them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — the monarch, say I? 
The god Sardanapalus! 

\Zh^^S> andthe Guests kfieel and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus! 

[// thunders as they kneel ; some start uf 
in confusion. 

Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ! in that 
His father gods consented. [strong peal 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou hear this mad impiety? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires whoreign'd 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
'Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends; 



452 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act in. 



Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there: 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase; it 
An awful night. [is 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers, 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha; and could I 
convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general. 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who can, and do not? 

Myr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has 

struck me: 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye. 
Air worshippers? that is, when it is angry, [be 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palace 
were 
Unroof d and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Ah. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their 
And homage is their pride. [king's, 

Sar, Nay, pardon, guests. 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon! sire : 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark! what was that? 

Za7n. That! nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind, [again I 

Alt, It sounded like the clash of — hark 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar, No more. 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order? 
Sing me a song of Sappho — her, thou know'st. 
Who in thy country threw- 

Enter V\^\h with his sword and garments 
bloody and disordered. The guests rise in 
confusion. 

Pan. [to the Guards]. Look to the portals; 
And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms! To arms! The king's in danger. 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. Monarch, 



Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes fear'd; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. 
Take breath, good Pania. [worn 

Pa?i, 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr, Well, sir, the rebels? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar, Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pa7i. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what's left of it is still so. 

Myr, And are these all the force still faithful ? 

Pan, No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
' To centre all their force, and save the king. 
i {He hesitates,) I am charged to 

Afyr. 'Tis no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the 
king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment. 
And show himself unto the soldiers: his 
Sole presence in this instance might do more 
iThan hosts can do in his behalf. 
i Sar, What, ho! 

'My armor, there. 

Myr. And wilt thou? 

Sar, Will I not? 

Ho, there! — but seek not for the buckler: 'tis 
Too heavy: — a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where arc the rebels? 

i Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall the fiercest conflict 

rages. 
I Sar,'Y\\Qn I may charge on horseback. Sfero, 
I ho! 

j Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
I To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

[Exit SFERO,yb;- the armor. 

Myr. How I do love thee! 
j Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

I Myr. But now I know thee, [spear too. — 
I .^ar. [To his Attendant], Bring down my 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



453 



Where's Salemenes? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar, Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx? 

Pan. 'Twas 

When I late left him, and I have no fear: 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar, Tell him to spare his person for the 
present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 

Pan. There's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

Sar. Altada — Zames — forth and arm ye! 
Is all in readiness in the armory. [There 

See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
In the remote apartments: let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives — command it, 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; [Zames. 
Your post is near our person. 

[Exeunt ZPiM.'E.?>y Altada, and all save 
Myrrha. 
Enter Sy'EKO and others , with the King's arms, 

Sfe. King! your armor. 

Sar, [Arming hi77tself ] . Give me the cui- 
rass — so: my baldric; now 
Mysword: I had forgot the helm, where is it? 
That's well — no, 'tis too heavy! you mistake, 

too — 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and trust 
This is of better metal, though less rich, [me, 

Sar. You deem'd! Are you too turn'd a 
rebel? Fellow! 
Your part is to obey; return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least, wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus! why, 'tis 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her 
brightness. 

Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear! I'marm'd. 
[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror.* j 

* " Such the mirror Otho held, 1 

In t}i« Illy nan field. " — See '^oxi'Bi^KL. ' 



Sfe. The mirror, sire? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be 

speedy. [Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You! to battle? 

Myr. If it were so, 

'Twere not the first Greek girl had trod the 
I will await here your return, [path. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail; and, if it be so. 
And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at 
In Hades! if there be, as I believe, [last — 
A shore beyond the Styx; and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much? 

Myr. I dare all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty: forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 

Sar. [Looking at himself.'] This cuirass fits 
me well, the baldric better. 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Elifzgs away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys; and now to prove 
Altada! Where's Altada? [them. 

Sfe. Waiting, sire. 

Without: he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me; yet once more — once 

more — 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Myr. Go forth, and conquer! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus a^id Sfero. 
Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish! If he vanquish not, I perish; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth 

yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 



454 



SARDANAPAL US, 



[ACT III. 



Who knows not of Olympus! yes, I love him 
Now, now, far more than Hark — to the 

war shock! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

\She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learnt to compound on Euxine shores, and 

taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave: — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout! and now the 
Of arms — and now — and now — [clash 

Enter Alt ad A. 

Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho! 

Myr. He is not here; what wouldst thou 
Goes on the conflict? [with him? How 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely, 

Myr. And the king? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own hel- 
met. 
He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face. 
And the foe too; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods. 

Who fulminate o'er my fathers' land, protect 
Were you sent by the king? [him! 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge, [eign. 
Without the knowledge of the careless sover- 
The king! the king fights as he revels! ho! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory. 
He must be there. \Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonor — no — 

'Tis no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile Jistaff; surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to man- 
hood. 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tombj 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir? | 



Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery, Zames! Where 
Is Zames? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
To watch before the apartment of the women. 

\Exit Officer. 

Myr. \sola\ He's gone; and told no more 
than that all's lost! [words. 

What need have I to know more? In those 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least, 
My fate is in my keeping: no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, 
The river, by a secret passage. [beyond 

Myr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life. 
And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. W^ill he then give way? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does 
whate'er 
Despair can do; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then: — ay. 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient 
Never profaned by rebel echoes till [halls. 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away! 

Myr. No: I'll die here! — Away, and tell 
I loved him to the last. [your king 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes with 
Soldiers. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges 
hi7ns elf with thevi. 

Sar. Since it is thus. 

We'll die where we were born — in our own 
halls. [patch'd 

Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have des- 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful; they'll be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania turfis towards Myrrha. 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPAL US. 



455 



Sal. We have breathing time; yet once more 
One for Assyria! [charge, my friends — 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark! they come — they come. 

Enter Beleses andKKBKC^s with the Rebels. 

Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. 
Charge! charge! [us — On! 

Bel, On! on! — Heaven fights for us, and with 
\_They charge the King and Salemenes 
with their troops, who defend themselves 
till the arrival of Zames with the Guard 
before mentioned. The Rebels are then 
driven off, and pursued by Salemenes, 
^c. As the King is going to join the pur- 
suit, Beleses crosses him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant — I will end this war. 
Sar^ Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject: yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 
Sar, No, thine — IVe lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 

Bel. But not by thee. 

[ Tliey fight; Beleses is wounded and dis- 
armed. 
Sar . [raising his sword to despatch him, ex - 
claims'] — 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 
I A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. 
They assail the KlNG,who, in turn, is res- 
cued by a party of his soldiers, who drive 
the Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. [to Pan.]. Pursue! Why stand'st thou 
here, and leav'st the ranks ? [thee. 

Ban. The king's command was not to quit 
Myr, Me! 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake. 
Keep watch upon a woman? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed! Nay, then, /will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife. 
And bid thee guard va^ there — where thou 
shouldst shield 



Thy sovereign. [^Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel! She is gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too; and can I do less than he. 
Who never flash'd a scimitar till now? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch, [^ExitYK^iK, 

Enter KuYKDK a7td Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha! 

What, gone? yet she was here when the fight 
raged, [them? 

And Pania also. Can aught have befallen 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels 
They probably are but retired to make [fled; 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them; 

She cannot be fled far; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire than 
His silken son to save it: he defies 
All augury of foes or friends; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest,bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. \_Exeunt. 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, 6^^:. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from the 
And we have open'd regular access [palace, 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true : nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. — But where 
Is the chief victor? where is the king? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, &^c., and 
Myrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite; but let it pass. 

We've clear'd the palace — — 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather; and I've order'd onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved. 



456 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act III. 



All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
AVho spared no speed. I am spent: give me 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire, [a seat. 

Sar. 'Tis no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body: let me have a couch, 

[ They place a seat. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what: so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

SaL Thib great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where's my 
Bring me some water. [cupbearer? 

Sal. \smili7ig\. 'Tis the first time he 

Ever had such an order: even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood — doubtless. 

But there's enough of that shed; as for wine, 
I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure 

element; 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd 
\Vith greater strength than the grape ever 

gave me. 
My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet? 

One of the Guards, Slain, sire! 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain! unrewarded! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor 
slave! [with 

Had he but lived, I would have gorged him 
Gold: all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught : for I was parch'd 
As I am now. \_They bring water — he drinks, 

I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Which guards your arm? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh! he is wounded! 

Sar, Not too much of that; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. Thefillet of my diadem; the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me 
Save an encumbrance. 

Myr. \to the Attendants^ . Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful; pray, retire: 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar, Do so, 



For now it throbs sufficiently: but what [ask? 
Know'st thou of wounds? yet wherefore do I 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar, No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging 
(And femininely meaneth furiously. 
Because all passions in excess are female) 
Against the hunter flying with her cub. 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 

Sal. Indeed! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made w^arriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek; 
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her 

long hair, 
As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry; her lips 
Apart : her voice that clove through all the din 
As a lute pierceth through the cymbals' clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their own 
born whiteness [up 

Than the steel her handheld, which she caught 
From a dead soldier's grasp — all these things 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess [made 
Of victory, or Victory herself. 
Come down to hail us hers. 

Sal. \aside'\. This is too much. 

Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost. 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

\Aloud\. But pray thee, sire. 

Think of your wound — you said even now 

'twas painful. [of it. 

Sar. That's true, too; but I must not think 

Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and 
will now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. [in retiring], Myrrha! 

Myr. Prince! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night. 

Which, were he not my sister's lord — But now — 
I have no time: thou lovest the king? 

A/yr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what 
he should be. [and all 

Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPAL US, 



457 



He should, or should not be; to have him live^ 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without: look well that he relapse not. 

Myr, There needed not the voice of Sale- 
To urge me on to this: I will not fail, [menes 
All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal, Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar, Myrrha! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous. 

Myr, [smiling']. You have cause, sire; for 
on the earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — [tion ! 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admira- 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I 
must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 

Myr, And now retire to have your wound 
Pray lean on me. [look'd to. 

Sar, Yes, love! but not from pain, 

[Exeunt omnes. 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleep- 
ing upon a Conchy and occasionally dis- 
turbed in his slufndersy with Myrrha 
watching. 

Myr. [sola, gazing] . I have stolen upon his 

rest, if rest it be, [him? 

Which thus convulses slumber: shall I wake 

No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 

Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft 

dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother. Death, — so still, — so 

stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unawakening twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet; who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight,may cause all this,and 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : [shake 



I Let Nature use her own maternal means, — 
I And I await to second, not disturb her. 
j Sar. [awakening]. Not so — although ye 
i multiplied the stars, 

I And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you! I would not so pur- 
chase 
The empire of eternity. Hence-^hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols. 
If your priests lie not! And thou, ghastly 

beldame! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
Where am I? Where the spectres? Where — 

No— that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. 
Myrrha! [the drops 

Myr. Alas! thou art pale, and on thy brow 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another 

world. 
And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer; 
All will go well. 

Sar, Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand; 

'Tis flesh; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 

For what I am and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha! I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord! [are lords, 

Sar, I've been i' the grave — where worms 
And kings are — but I did not deem it so; 
I thought 'twas nothing. 

Myr. So it is; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

Sleep shows such things, what may not death 
disclose? [life 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore where mind survives 'twill be as mind, 
x\ll unincorporate : or if there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls 

and heaven. 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not; but I have felt — have 
A legion of the dead. [seen— 

Myr^ And so have L 



45S 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[ACT IV. 



The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But proceed: what hast thou 

seen? 
Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. Methought 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — 
exhausted; all [seek 

Which can impair both strength and spirit: 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar, Not now — I would not 

Dream; though I know it now to be a dream 

What I have dreamt: — and canst thou bear 

to hear it? [or death, 

Alyr. I can bear all things, dreams of life 
Which I participate with you in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you: after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

Myr, Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 

Here — here---even where we are, guests as we 

were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest. 
Willing to equal all in social freedom; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face; I could not recognize it. 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where: 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted; his long locks curl'd 

down 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle 
wing, [hair. 

That peep'd up bristling through his serpent 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — I fiU'd it: 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye: 
I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
Hefrown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more. 
Because it changed not; and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right. 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 

Myr. What instead? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in 
the banquet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a grey-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the 
passion 



Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate: — my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all? 

Sar, Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right 

hand — stood 
I A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood; and on 
Her left another filled with — what I saw not. 
But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches. 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision? 

Sar. No; 

It was so palpable, I could have touchM them. 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs: but no — all turn'd upon me 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but 

stared 
Till I grew stone, as they seemed half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them. 
And life in me: there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end? 

Sar. At last I sate, marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter and the crone; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the 

woman's 
Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still; 
A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine: I took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own; 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was: the ancestor of heroes, too. 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ah, Myrrha, but the woman. 

The female who remain'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses; 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons tiow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues. 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she slill 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if. 



SCENE J.] 



SARDANAPAL US, 



459 



In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet 

feeling — 
Buried,and raised again — consumed by worms, 
Purged by the flames, andwither'd in the air! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee. 
In all these agonies, and woke and found thee, 

Myr, So shalt thou find me ever at thy side. 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mere crea- 
Of late events, acting upon a frame [tions 

Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar, I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal, Is the king so soon awake? 

Sar, Yes, brother, and I would I had not 
For all the predecessors of our line [slept; 
Roseup, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was amongst them, too; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
"Whom you call glorious. 

Sal, So I term you also. 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite 
quell'd, 

Sar, How wears the night? 

Sal, There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 

Sar, No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone : me- 
I pass'd hours in that vision. [thought 

Myr- Scarcely one; 

I watch'd by you: it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar, Let us then hold council; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'Tis granted, 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily; and 'tis 
Yqx your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave, 

{Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 



Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you, 

Sar. How! of the queen? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their 
safety [children 

That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and 

with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable: well 
thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal, That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates: but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar, My sons? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes and ill-worn 

smiles? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ! 

At least, I trust so; in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — forever. 

Sar. Unto what end? what purpose? I will 

grant [ing. 

Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meet- 

Sal, You know, or ought to know, enough 
of women, 
Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it? 

Sar. 'Twill be useless: 

But let her come. 

Sal. I go. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar, We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and now to meet! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
Who have ceased to mingle love? 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

Sal. My sister! Courage: 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but 

remember 

From whence we sprung. The queen is present, 

Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. [sire. 

Sal. Since you ask it. 

\Exit Salemenes. 



460 



SARDANAPAL US. 



[act IV. 



Zar. Alone with him! How many a year 
has pass'd, [met, 

Though we are still so young, since we have 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were 
mutual! [word, 

He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a 
Nor look — yet he 7vas soft of voice and aspect, 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar, 'Tis too late [proach — 
To think of these past dreams. Let's not re- 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar, And first, I ne'er reproach'd you. 

Sar, 'Tis most true; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own 

Zar. Nor hands; but I gave both, [power. 

Sar, Your brother said 

It was your will to see me ere you went 
From Nineveh with [//^ hesiiates'\, 

Zar, Our children: it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like 

you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

Sar, Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar, I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us, 

Sar, Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire, 
I trust them with you — to you: fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have 

Of this night's tumults? [heard 

Zar. I had half forgotten. 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar, The throne — I say it not in fear — but 'tis 
In peril; they perhaps may never mount it; 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar, They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may 
Their father's memory. [honor 



I Sar. Rather let them hear 

I The truth from you than from a trampling 
I world. 

If they be in adversity, they'll learn [princes. 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I child- 
less. 
' Zar, Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
JMy peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
i And honor him who saved the realm for them. 
So little cared for as his own; and if 

Sar, 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out, thank 
your father! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do; but rather 
honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king. 
In his last hours did more for his own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days. 
Which date the flight of time, but make no 
annals. [close; 

Sar, Our annals draw perchance unto their 
But at the least, whate'er the past, the end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar, Yet be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar, And who are they? 

lA slave who loves from passion — I'll not say 
[Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and 
I loves; 

A few friends who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar, Who loves, 

Sar. And pardons? 

Zar. I have never thought of this, 

And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 

Sar, My wife! 

Zar, Now blessings on thee for that word! 
I never thought to hear it more — from thee, 

Sar . Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. 

Yes! — 

These slaves whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, 

fed, [till 

And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty. 

They reign themselves — all monarchs in their 

mansions — 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. 'Tis 

Perhaps too natural; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPALUS, 



461 



Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar, Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sar. My life insures me that. How long, 
bethink you, 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal; 
That is, where mortals are, not where they 
must be? 

Zar, I know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake! 

Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life; 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee: if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine. 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others 
(This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that 

none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew 
To profit by them — as the miner lights [not 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering [it. 
That which avails him nothing: he hath found 
But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar, Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover 'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together. 
And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we'll find 
A world out of our own — and be morebless'd 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are pass- 
ing. " [out 

Zar, Inhuman brother, wilt thou thus weigh 
Instants so high and blest? 

Sal. Blest! 

Zar\ He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting, 

Sal, So — this feminine farewell 



Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar, Not be? 

Sal. Remain and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 

My sister : — all's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes; 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 'tis a point of 
The rebels would do more to seize upon [state : 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush — 

Zar. Ah! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me: when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the 

rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could I not remain, alone? 

Sal, W^hat! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet 

orphans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant? 

Zar. No — 

My heart will break. 

Sal, Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal, The time presses, 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, per- 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not, [haps 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will [for, 
Grieve more about the blighted name and ashes 
Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than — 
But I grow womanish again, and must not; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them : they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother. 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God! I never shall 

Behold him more! 

Sal. [striving to conduct her'\. Nay, sister, I 
must be obey'd. [hold me. 

Zar. I must remain — away! you shall not 



462 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act IV. 



What, shall he die alone? — /live alone? 

Sai. He shall not die alone; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That's false! I knew he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go! 

Sal. [comlticting her off the stage]. Nay, then, 
I must use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zaf\ Never. Help me! Oh! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee! 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gained. 

Zar, My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he? \_She faints. 

Sar. [advandng]. No — set her down; 

She's dead — and you have slain her, 

Sal. 'Tis the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside'\. 
Avail myself of this sole moment to [I must 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes dears her off. 

Sar. [solus]. This, too — 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion ! 
W^hy dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once? Zarina! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought unto thee. Had I never loved 
But thee I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves! 

Enter Myrrh A. 

Sar. You here! Who call'd you? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far otf a voice of wail and lamentation. 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might. 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
(Although they too were chiding)^ which re- 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude; [proved 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for: — I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me: events havesour'dme 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not: I shall 



Soon be rtiyself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shill s,ee with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! ' 

Sar, Wherefore do you start? 

Myr, Did I do so? 

Sar. 'Twas well you enter'd by another por- 
tal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared 

Myr. I know to feel for her. [her I 

Sar. That is too much. 

And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd! what, to be the envy of your 
sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thou- 
sand worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd- — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well- 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling; but as I am not 
Quite fall'n,nor now disposed to bear reproach- 
Perhaps because I merit them too often, [es, 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 

Myr. Part! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted. 
And must not all the present one day part? 

Myr. Why? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd 
With a strong escort to your native land ; [to, 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a king- 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus, [dom. 

Sar. The queen is gone: 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure, 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it — 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be; 

For then you cannot separate me from you, [it, 

Sar. And will not; but I thought you wish'd 

Myr. I? 

Sar. You spoke of your abasamdiit. 



SCENE I.] 



SAkDANAPALUS, 



4^3 



Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
Sar. Then fly from it. 

Alyr, 'Twill not recall the past — 

'Twill not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
Your lot be different, I'll not weep,but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. [now; 
Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 

Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
^ This very night, and in my further bearing, 
%■ Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 
; Sar. I am content : and, trusting in my cause, 
\ Think we may yet be victors and return 
-~ To peace — the only victory I covet. 
•'- To me war is no glory — conquest no [right 
■ Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my 

Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
' *These men would bow me down with. Never, 
never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others, 
r . I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
' An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and 

smile, 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise. 
And eveiy moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha: 

\He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and 
They shall have both, but never thee! [life! 
Myr. No, never! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall, — 
hosts yield, — [and more 

Friends fail, — slaves fly, — and all betray, — 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love! 'Tis here — now 
prove it. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How! she here again? 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof : methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports 



At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen's embark'd. 

Sar. And well? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er; at least 
It settled into tearless silence: her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the 
But she said nothing, [star-light; 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said! 

Sal. 'Tis now too late to feel! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang: 
To change them, my advices bring sure ti- 
dings [shall'd 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, mar- 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack: they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What! more rebels? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it w^as our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are joined by those 
I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit too; but, till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm; but when I set on 
them, [have 

Though they were piled on mountains, I would 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood! — 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily: 'tis not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath; 
The whole war turns upon it — with it; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar, Then let us end both! 

'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. [either; 
\A trumpet sounds without, 

Sal. Hark! 



404 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act v. 



Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal, And your wound? 

Sar . 'Tis bound — 

*Tis heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away! 
A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me 

deeper; 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim I 

Sa7'. Ay, if we conquer; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
them ! [ Trumpet sounds agam. 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. Ho, my arms! again, my arms! 

[^Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene i. — The same Hall in the Palace. 

Myrrha and Balea. 
Myr, [at a window]. The day at last has 
broken. What a night 
Hath usher'd it! how beautiful in heaven! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety! [hope, 

How hideous upon earth! where peace and 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
'Tis warring still! And can the sun so rise. 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, I 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making ■ 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, ; 
So like we almost deem it permanent; I 

So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught | 

Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently i 

Scatter'd along the eternal vault: and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul. 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love; which they who mark 

not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet re- 
bukes, 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 



And dream them through in placid sufferance. 

Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 

Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 

Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 

Which our internal, restless agony 

Would vary in the sound, although the sense 

Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

£al. You muse right calmly : and can you so 
The sunrise which may be our last? [watch 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the revei"ence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as 

fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal, [earth 

Pal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on 
He sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then: never 
Had earthly monarch half the power and glor/ 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Pal. Surely he is a god! 

Afyr. So we Greeks deem too; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with 

light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Pal, Hark! heard you not a sound? 

Myr. No, 'twas mere fancy; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour; and here, within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyram\d proportions. 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Pal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor: now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Pal, May they 

Prosper! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more: it is an anxious hour; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas! 
How vainly! 

Pal, It is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 



SCENE I.J 



SARDANAPALUS. 



465 



The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. | 

Myr, 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 1 

The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of 
But he did bravely. [slaves; 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but 
rescued to [him 

Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquished 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal, Hark! 

Myr, You are right; some steps approach, 
but slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes, 
wounded^ with a broken javelin in his side ; 
they seat him upon one of the couches which 
furnish the Apartment, 

Myr. Oh, Jove! 

Bal, Then all is over. 

Sal, That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr. Spare him — he's none: a mere court 
butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on then. 

Myr, So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and 
the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin 
struck you. 
You fell and fainted : 'twas his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal, 'Twas not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'tis 
I feel it ebbing! [vain, 

Myr. Let me see the wound; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being con- 
We are nerved to look on such things, [stant, 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr, Hold! no, no, it cannot be. 

Sal. I am sped, then! 

Myr, With the blood that fast must follow 
The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal, And I not death. Where was the king 
when you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was 
stricken? [ing 

Sal. Upon the same ground, and encourag- 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal, Whom heard ye- 



Named next to the command? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly then, and tell him, 'twas my last 
request 
That Zames take my post until the junction. 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here; our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But, prince 

Sal, Hence, I say! Here's a courtier and 
A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence! and do my 
bidding. [Exeunt the Soldiers. 

Myr, Gallant and glorious spirit! must the 
So soon resign thee? [earth 

Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this; 
As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 

Alyr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand: this broken weapon but 
prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 



My best brother! 

And the battle 



Sar. 

Sal. 
Is lost? 

Sar. [despondingly']. You see ??ie here. 

Sal, I'd rather see you thus! 

\He draws out the weapon from the wound ^ 
and dies. [succor, 

Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive from Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where's ZanK\s? 

Sar. Dead, 

Myr, And Altada? 

Sar, Dying. 

Myr. Pania? Sfero? 

Sar. Pania yet lives: but Sfero's fled or 
I am alone. [captive. 

Myr, And is all lost? 

Sar. Our walls. 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out 

against 

Their present force, or aught save treachery: 

But i' the field 

30 



466 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act v. 



Myr, I thought *t\vas the intent 

Of Salcmenes not to risk a sally [cors. 

Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected suc- 

Sar. / overruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament. 
The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming 

hjnor. 
To call back — —But I will not weep for thee; 
Thou shall be mourned for as thou wouldst be 

mourn'd. 
Itgrieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 
Believing that I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 
(The tears of all the good are thine already). 
If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 
\Vithin us lives beyond: — thou readest mine, 
And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless 
heart, \_Emdraces the body. 

To this which beats so bitterly. Now bear 
The body hence. 

Soldier, Where? 

Sar, To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there: when this is done we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 
\Exeiint Soldiers with the body of Salem- 

ENES. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar, Well, Pania! have you placed the 
The orders fix'd on? [guards, and issued 

Pan, Sire, I have obey'd. [up? 

Sar, And do the soldiers keep their hearts 

Pan, Sire? 

Sar. I'manswer'd? W^hen a king asks twice. 
And has a question as an answer to his question. 
It is a portent. What! they are dishearten'd? 

Pan, The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 
We'll find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar, Alas I 

Who can so feel it as I feel? but yet. 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are 
strong, and we [through hosts, 

Have those without will break their way 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it 

was — 
A palace; not a prison, nor a fortress. 



Enter an Op'FICER, hastily. 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak! 

Offi. I dare not. 

Sar, Dare not? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand! 
That's strange. I pray thee break that royal 
silence [hear 

Which loathes to shock its sovereign; we can 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pa7t. Proceed, thou hearest, 

Offi,. The wall which skirted near the river's 
brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the 
bulwark. 

Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, ** That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadia.* 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and 

omens. 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked 
My father's house shall never be a cave [them, 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction, 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such mea- 
For the assurance of the vacant space [sures 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight. 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr, Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be pun- 
ish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you 
not. [can tell me 

Sar, I am past the fear of portents : they 



*Ab»ut two miles and a half. 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPAL US. 



467 



Nothing I have not told myself since mid- 
Despair anticipates such things. [night: 

Myr. Despair! 

Sar. No, not despair precisely. When we 
know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance, [done 
But what are words to us? we have well nigh 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals; crowning act 
Of all that was, or is, or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, 
natures, [lects, 

Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intel- 
Without one point of union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we're born, and 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life, [thread 

Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, 
let's be cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis 

As was reported: I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar, You have done your duty faithfully, 
and as 
My worthy Pania! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key: 

\^Gives a key. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain 
Along its golden frame — as bearing for [down 
A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you; 
'Tis full of treasure; take it for yourself [ye, 
And your companions: there's enough to load 
Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed 
And all the inmates of the palace, of [too; 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd 

for pleasure, 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river's broad and swoln, and uncom- 

manded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Flyl and be happy! 

PuH^ Under your protection! 



So you accompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania! that must not be; get thee 
And leave me to my fate. [hence, 

Pan. 'Tis the first time 
I ever disobey'd: but now 

Sars So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no fur- 
ther; 
'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt 
Oppose it? M^«.^ \thou 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

Sar^ Well, then. 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pari. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'Tis enough, now order here 

Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and 

such [spark; 

Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole 

Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs and 

spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile. 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre! 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord! 

Sar. I have said it, 

KxiAyou have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. [^Exit Pania. 

Myr. What mean you? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty. 
This herald has been brought before me, crav- 
An audience. [ing 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces 

Sar. WhatjCrown'd already? — But proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god or demon? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and 
Reply to mine. [not 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes - 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

Her. \sho'wi7tg a ring\^ Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors; behold 
His signet ring. 

Sar. 'Tis his. A worthy triad! 

Poor Salemenes! thou hast died in time 
iTo see one treachery the lesst this man 



46S 



SARDANAPALUS. 



[act 



Was thy true friend and my most trusted sub- 
Proceed. [ject. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, [son, 

Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in per- 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace; but 
Condition that the three young princes are [on 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar, [tronica/fy]. The generous victors! 

Her. I wait the answer. i 

Sar. Answer, slave! How long i 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings? I 

//<?/'. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny! : 

Thou at least shalt learn the penalty I 

Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania! ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within! 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river, j 
Away with him! 

[Pania am/ the guards seizing hi}n. \ 

Pan. I never yet obey'd [entJ 

Your orders with more pleasure than the pres-l 
Hence with him, soldiers! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore; 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar, And what's mine? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down? 

Her^ I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril, if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar, So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned ' 
From birth to manhood! i 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours ■ 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent: I 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us to the gods? 

Sar. He's right — Let him go free. — My life's 
last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[ Gives him a golden cup fro7n a table near . 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think o{ ?ne; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more pre- 
But must 1 bear no answer? [cious. 



Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's? 

Sar. An hour's: if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms. 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And hark! a word more. 

Her, I shall not forget it, 

Whate'er it be. 

Sar, Commend me to Beleses; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

[Exit Herald. 

Sar. Pania! — 

Now, my good Pania! — quick — with what I 

order'd. [charged, 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already 
And see, they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about 
the Throne^ ^c. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers. 

And thicker yet; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of h; I would not 
Leave that,save fraught with fire unquenchable. 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect t 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king obsequies? 

Pan, Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame? 

Pafi. No- 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

xlfyr. That duty's mine. 

Pan. A woman's! 

Mjyr. 'Tis the soldier's 

Part to die/or his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover? 

Pan. 'Tis most strange! 

Afyr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou 
think'st it. [pile 

In the mean time, live thou. — Farewell! the 
Is ready. 

J^jn. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
Willi but a single female to partake 
His death. 



SCENE I.] 



SARDANAPAL US. 



469 



Sar, Too many far have heralded 
Me to the dust already. Get thee hence: 
Enrich thee. 

Pan, And live wretched! 

Sar, Think upon 

Thy vow; — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan, Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chamber, 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold; 
Remember,what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say, what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand! 

Let me then once more press it to my lips; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you. 
Would fain die with you! [and 

[7y^ Soldiers and Pania throng round 
him J kissing his hand and the hem of his 
rode. 

Sar. My best! my last friends! 

Let's not unman each other: part at once: 
All farewells should be sudden, when forever. 
Else they make an eternity of moments. 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied; or far more for what 
Is past than present; for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such [well. 

There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — fare- 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort 
still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar, And lovely ones, my beautiful! — but 
hear me! 
If at this moment — for we now are on [from 
The brink — thou feel'st an inward shrinking 
This leap through flame into the future, say it: 
I shall not love thee less; nay, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature; and there's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
Before Baal's shrine in the adjoining hall? 

Sar. Do so. Is tlial thy answer? 



Myr, Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrh A. 

Sar. [solus]. She's firm. My fathers! whom 
I will rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen : 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it. 
Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms and records, monuments, and spoils, 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with 
To you in that absorbing element, [me 

Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery workings: and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillar form of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lesson ages, rebel nations, and [many 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full 
A people's records, and a hero's acts; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing; but even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 

Myrrha returns with a lighted torch in one 
hand, and a cup in the other. 

Myr. Lo! 

I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup? 

Myr. 'Tis my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations amongst men. I've not 
Forgot the custom; and although alone. 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after 
drinking and tinkling the reversed cup, as 
a drop falls, exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr, Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
Than on his mate's in villainy? 

Sar. The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand; the other 
Is a master-mover of his warlike puppet; 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myrrha! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly? 



470 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[ACT I. 



Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom? 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr, It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar, Now, farewell; one last embrace. 

Myr, Embrace, but ;z^/the last; there is one 
more. [ashes. 

Sar, True, the commingling fire will mix our 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall 
they, 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly 

passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks 

Sar. Say it. [me. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 
The dust of both into one urn, 

Sar. The better: 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air. 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin. 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains o'er dead 
kings, 



Or kinCy for none know whether those proud 

piles 
Be for their monarch or their ox-god Apis: 
So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record! 

Myr, Then farewell, thou earth! 

And loveliest spot of earth! farewell, Ionia! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation! my last prayer [of thee! 
Was for ihee, my last thoughts, save one^ were 
Sar. And that? 
Myr, Is yours. 

[ The t7'iunpet of Pania sounds without. 
Sar. Hark! 

Myr, Now ! 

Sar, Adieu, Assyria! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land. 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I sated thee with peace and joys; and this 
Is my reward; and now I owe thee nothing — 
Not even a grave. \He mounts the pile. 

Now, Myrrha! 
Myr. Art thou ready? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrha yfr^j the pile, 

Myr. 'Tis fired! I come. 

\^As Myrrha springs forward to throw 

herself into the flames ^ the Curtain falls. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
1821. 

**T)\e^/athir softens, but ih^ g^cvernor' s resolved." — CRmc. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 



Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge, 
James Loredano, ^ Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Party. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 

Scene. — The Ducal Palace ^ Venice. 



Other Senators, The Council of Ten , Guards, 
Attendants f&^c, &^c. 

WOMAN. 

Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace, 
Enter Loredano a«^ Barbarigo, meeting. 
Lor. Where is the prisoner? 
Bar, Reposing from 

The Question. 



Lor. The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

Bar, Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



471 



And may die under it if now repeated. 

Lor. Well? 

Bar, I yield not to you in love of justice, 
Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race; 
But the poor wretch has suffered beyond na- 
Most stoical endurance. lure's 

Lor, Without owning 

His crime? 

Bar. Perhaps without comjiitting any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor^ We shall see. 

Bar, You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far? 

Bar, To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct you may say this. — Let's in to council. 

Bar, Yet pause — the number of our col- 
leagues is not 
Complete yet; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge? 

Bar, No — he. 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True — true — 

His last. 

Bar, Will nothing move you? 

Lor. Feels he, think you? 

Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have mark'd that — the wretch! 

Bar, But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the 
The old man fainted. [threshold 

Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar, The work is half your own. 

Lor, And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar, I have read the epitaph, which says 
By poison. [they died 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 
Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly, — he is sover- 

Bar. A wretched one. [eign. 

Lor, What should they be who make 

Orphans? 

Bar, But did the Doge make you so? 

Lor, Yes. 

Bar, What solid proofs? 

Lor. When princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult; but I have such 



Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

Bar, But you will move by law? 

Lor. By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of com- 
merce 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles), 
** Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle"? 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave it unerased? 

Lor, Till balanced. 

Bar. And how? 

^Two Senators /d:j"j over the stage, as 
in their way to ^U he Hall of the Coun- 
cil of len,''^ 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. \Exit Loredano. 

Bar. \solus^. Follow thee ! I have follow'd 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave [long 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and 

wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly! — [az-e 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they 
Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee? 

Enter Guards with youfig Foscari as pris- 
oner y &^c. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signor, take time, 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble; 
But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. I'll stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind: — I meet some pity, 
This is the first. [but no mercy. 

Guard. And might be the last, did they 
Who rule behold us. 

Bar. [advancing to the Guard] . There is one 
who does: 
Yet fear not; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser; though the hour is past. 
Wait their last summons — I am of *Uhe Ten,'' 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence: when the last call 

sounds. 
We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner! 



472 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act I. 



Jac. Fos, What voice is that? — Tis Bar- 
barigo's! Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, ifsuch there be, 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

yac. Fos, True, 

lie judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire, I 
As to allow his voice, in such high matter 
As the state's safety- 

Jac. Fos, And his son's. I'm faint; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 

Bar. [/o the Gnara\. Let him approach. I 
must not speak with him 
Further than thus: I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber, 

{Exit Barbarigo. 
{Guard conducling Jacopo Foscari to 
the wijtdow. 

Guard. There, sir, 'tis 

Open. — How feel you? 

Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice! 

Guard. And your limbs? [me 

yac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength; 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands. 
Even to the goal! — How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more dar- 
ing, [stroke 
The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd 

hair. 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me! and oft, 
In my wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search'd the deep: ex 

ulting, 
With afar-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 



The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now: there never was 
Of manhood's strength. [more need 

yac. Fos. [looking from the lattice.^ Mj^ 
beautiful, my own, 
My only Venice — this is breath! Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
And cool them into calmness! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, 
Made my heart sick! [and 

Guard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength 
to bear [on't. 

What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think 

yac. Fos. They will not banish me again? — 
No, no, 
Let them wring on; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

yac. Eos. I confess'd 

Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

yac. Fos. Let them do so. 

So I be buried in my birth-place: better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil 
which hates you? [the soil 

yac. Fos. The soil! — Oh no, it is the seed of 
Which persecutes me; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here! 

Enter an Officer. 

Ofi. Bring in the prisoner! 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

yac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons: 

'tis [lend me 

The third time they have tortured me : — then 

Thine arm. ^ [To the Guard. 

OJfi. Take mine, sir; 'tis my duty to 

Be nearest to your person. 

yac. Fos, You! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away! — I'll walk alone. 

OJi. As you please, signor; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

yac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their 
horrid engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now; 
The time svill come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 'lis issued. As 
/ 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCART 



473 



I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, [if — 
And the cold drops strain through my l)ro\v, as 
But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father? 

^ Offi, With his wonted aspect, 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the 

blue of Ocean, 
The brightness of our city and her domes, 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
Even here,into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the un 

number'd [wear 

Judged and destroyed in silence, — all things 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

\Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, qt^c. 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

Mem, He's gone — we are too late: — think 
you ** the Ten" 
Will sit for any length of time to-day? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
Persisting in his first avowal; but 
More I know not. 

Mem, And that is much ; the secrets 

Of yon terriffic chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state. 
As from the people. 

Sen, Save the wonted rumors, 

Which — like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings — never have been 

proved. 
Nor wholly disbelieved: men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom*d mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen, Or Doge? 

Mem. Why, no; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen, 'Tis the first station of the state, and 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully [may 

Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

Heave it; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited: I'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial «< Ten," 
Than shine a lonely though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here? the wife of Foscari! 

Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 

Mar. What, no one? — I am wrong, there 
But they are senators. [still are two; 

Mefu. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 



Mar. I coifimand ! — Alas! my life 

jHas been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not an- 
swer, [here save on the rack. 

Mar. [fiercely.'] True — none dare answer 
Or question save those 

Mem. [interrupting her]. High-bom dame! 
Where thou now art. [bethink thee 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father' s palace. 

Mejji. The Duke's palace! 

Mar. And his son's prison! — True, I have 
not forgot it; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious 

Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem, Be calm! 

Mar. [looking up towards heaven] . I am ; 
but oh, thou eternal God! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 

Mem, Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
Speak not of that; you area man of office. 
So is the Doge; he has a son at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband. 
Or had; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and cul- 
Will he condemn him ? [prit : 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Me77i. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are one 
In wickedness: — my husband's lost! 

Mem. Not so; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons: but **the Ten's" is 

quicker. 
And we must wait on't. Ah! a voice of wail! 
[A faint cry within. 

Sen, Hark! 

Mem. 

Mar. 
Not Foscari's. 

Mem. 

Mar, 
He shriek! No; that should 

part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 

[A faint groan again within, 
Mem. What! 

Again ! 



'Twas a cry of 

No, no; not my husband's — 

The voice was 

N'ot his : no. 
be his father's 



474 



THE TWO FOSCARI, 



[act I. 



Mar, His voice! it seem'd so: I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And feeling for thy husband's wrongs, 

wouldst thou [lence? 

Have him bear more than mortal pain in si- 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I 
have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son 

from life; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it; but mine were joyful pangs; 
And yet they wrung me till I could have 

shriek'd. 
But did not; for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with 

Mem. All's silent now. [tears. 

Mar, Perhaps all's over; but 

I will not deem it: he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily, 

Mem, How now, friend, what seek you? 

Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

\Exit Officer. 

Mem, Lady, 

'Twere better to retire. [so. 

Sen. [offering to assist her^. I pray thee do 

Mar, Off! /will tend him. 

Mem, You! Remember, lady! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except *' the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd — many never; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem, Alas! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
And worse suspense. 

Mar, Who shall oppose me? 

Mem. They 

Whose duty 'tis to do so. 

Mar, 'Tis their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends which will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing! Yet I'll pass. 

Me?n. It is impossible. 

Mar, That shall be tried. 

Despair defies even despotism: there is [hosts 
That in my heart would make its way through 
With levell'd spears; and think you a few jailors 
Shall put me from my path? Give me, then. 
This is tlie Doge's palace; I am wife [way; 



Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
And they shall hear this! 

Mem. It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Kxt. judges who give way to anger? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

{Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady! 

Mem. 'Tis mere desperation: she 

Will not be admitted ©'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But see, the offier returns. 

{The Officer passes over the stage with 
another person, 

Mein. I hardly [of pity, 

Thought that ** the Ten " had even thifi touch 
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain? 

Mem, I marvel they condemn him not at 
once. [him live, 

Sen. That's not their policy: they'd have 
Because he fears not death! and banish him. 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison. 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mem. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. None, save the Letter, which he says 

was written, [edge 

Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowl- 

That it would fall into the senate's hands. 

And thus he should be re-convey'd to Venice. 

Mem, But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country; 

And that was all he sought, — so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was 
proved. 

Seyt. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicholas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of ** the Ten." 

Mem. Then why not clear him? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donato, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

Mem. There must be more in this strange 

process than [close 

The apparent crimes of the accused dis- 

But here come two of *< the Ten "; let us retire. 

\Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 



SCENE I.J 



THE TWO FOSCARI, 



4r5 



Enter LOREDANO aw^BARBARIGO. 
Bar. [addressing LoR.]. That were too 
much; believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 
Lor. And so the Council must break up, 
and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations? 

Bar. No, 

That's not the cause; you saw the prisoner's 

Lor. And had he not recovered? [state. 

Bar, To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'Twas not tried. 

Bar. 'Twas in vain to murmur; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir. 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'er-ruledmy own. 

Bar, I am a judge; but must confess that 

part [tion, 

Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Ques-: 

And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, j 

Makes me wish 

Lor. What? 

Bar, ThdXyou would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh. 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy. 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so. 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye. 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him; but he did not cry 
For pity; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication. 
But wrung from pangs, and followed by no 
prayers. 

Lor, He mutter'd many times between his 
But inarticulately. [teeth. 

Bar, That I heard not; 

You stood more near him. 

Lor, I did so. 

Bar, Methought, 

To my surprise, too, you were touch'd with 

mercy. 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar, And have I not oft heard thee name 



His and his father's death your nearest wish? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted? 

Bar. War with them too? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine 
are nothing. 

Bar, And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though 

rarely. 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity; these moved you not? 

[Exit LOREDANO. 

He's silent in his hate, as Foscari [moved me 
Was in his suffering; and the poor wretch 
I More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
I Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
When his distracted wife broke through into 
The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 
What we could scarcely look upon, long used 
To such sights. I must think no more of this, 
Lest I forget in this compassion for 
Our foes, their former injuries, and lose 
The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
For him and me; but mine would be content 
With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 
And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 
Has a short hourly respite, granted at 
The instance of the elders of the Council, 
Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 
The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo! they 
How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear [come: 
To look on them again in this extremity: 
I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

{Exit Barbarigo. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 

The Doge and a Senator. 
Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow? 

Doge, Now ; 

I overlook'd it yesterday: it wants 

Merely the signature. Give me the pen 

[The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 

There, signor. [it is not signed. 

Sen. [Looking at t/u paper \. You have forgot; 

Doge. Not sign'd? Ah, I perceive my eyes 

begin 

To wax more weak with age. I did not sec 



476 



THE riVO FOSCARI. 



[ACT II. 



That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
Sen. [dipping the pen into the itik^ and plac- 
ing the paper before the Doge]. Your, 
hand, too, shakes, my lord; allow me. 

Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. [thus 

Sen. Thus the act confirmed 

By you and by ** the Ten " gives peace to 
Venice. 

Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoy'd it: may it 
As long ere she resume her arms! [he 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt 

I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign. 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'Tis most true. 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge, Perhaps so. 

Sen, Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge, For what? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signor? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord : 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present 
Not to feel deeply for your son. [kindness. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission? 

Sen, What, my lord? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not: but the treaty's 
Return with it to them who sent you. [signed; 

Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council, 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at 
this moment. 
If it so please them: I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for your 
repose. [shall cause 

Do^e. I have no repose, that is, none which 

The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 

Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 

Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 

\^Exit Senator. The Doge remains in 

silence* 



Enter an Attendant. 

Att. Prince! 

Doge. Say on. 

Att. The illustrious Lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! 

{Exit Attendant. The Doge remains 
in silence as before. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 
Command my time, when not commanded by 
the state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband? 

Mar. And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter! 

Mar, I had obtain'd permission from <* the 
Ten " 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. Vou had so. 

Mar. 'Tis revoked. 

Doge. By whom? 

Mar. <' The Ten." — W'hen we had reach'd 
"• the Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
* * The Ten ;" — but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal re-assembled 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd; and till it 
Tis dubious. [meets, 

Mar. Till it meets! and when it meets, 
They'll torture him again; and he and I 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
Dost thou see this? 

Doge. Child— child— ^- 

Mar. [abruptly]. Call me not «< child!" 
You soon will have no children — you deserve 

none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans! Though these did 

not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



477 



Stretched forth a hand to save them? 

Doge. You behold me: 

I cannot weep — I would I could; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
For him. 

Mar, With less he surely might be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not 
Venice. 
Alas! how should you? she knows not herself. 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son; 
They work by different means to the same end. 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crush'd. 

Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 

Mar, And your son, — how long will he live? 

Doge. I trust, 

For all that yet is pass'd, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy. 
With womanish impatience to return. 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter: 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke: 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes- he has 

He must return. [quench'dthem — | 

Mar. To exile? ! 

Doge I have said it. ' 

Mar. And can I not go with him? 

Doge. You well know,' 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before' 
By the assembled ** Ten," and hardly now j 
Will be accorded to a third request. 
Since aggravated errors on the part i 

Of your lord renders them still more austere. | 

Mar, Austere? Atrocious! The old human! 
fiends, [strange ' 

With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white ! 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads ; 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they counsel, \ 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life ! 

Were no more than the feelings long extin- ' 
In their accursed bosoms, [guish'd! 

Doge. You know not \ 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, me-' 

thinks, j 

That these are demons: could it be else that | 

Men, who have been of women born and 

suckled — [given 

Who have loved,or talk'd at least of love — have 

Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their 

babes 



Upon their knees,perhaps have mourn'd above 

them — 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 
Or were at least in seeming, human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and youyour- 
Youy who abet them? [self — 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your 

flesh shook not; 
And after that, what are a woman's words? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should 
shake you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, 
I tell thee. 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me; 
Pity thy son! Thou pity! — 'tis a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though 
Couldst thou but read [they wrong me. 

Mar. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy? or shall? 

Doge. \J>omting downwards^. There. 

Mar. In the earth? 

Doge. To which I am tending: when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which 
Now, you will know me better. [press it 

Mar. Are you, then. 

Indeed, thus to be pitied? 

Doge, Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name; that name shall be. 
As far as / have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save 
You were the last to bear it. 

Doge, Would it were so ! 

Better for him he never had been born; 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dis- 
honor'd. [heart. 

Mar. That's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crushed, over- 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin [whelm'd. 



478 



THE TWO POSCARL 



[act II. 



In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonored ! — he dishonor'd ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonor'd! 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant! — ye! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
^Vho totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile. 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. [me 

Mar. ' That word again? 

Doge^ Has he not been condemn'd? 

Mar, Is none but guilt so? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I 
would hope so. 
He was my pride, my — but 'tis useless now — 
I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
"When he was born; those drops were ominous. 

Alar. I say he's innocent! And were he not 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us [so, 
In fatal moments? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's; 
The state would not dispense me from those du- 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused: [ties: 
They must then be fulfill'd. 

Enter an ATTENDANT. 

Att. A message from 

«' The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He! — but admit him. 

\Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire? 

Doge, Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not Well, 

signor. 
Your pleasure? \To Loredano entering. 

Lor. I bear that of ** the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 

Lor, 'Tis their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We? 

Lor, <* The Ten " in council. 

Doge. What! have they met again, and met 
Apprising me? [without 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 



No less than age. 

Doge, That's new — when spared they either? 
I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor, You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'Tis some years since I learn'd this, 

long before [ment. 

I became Doge, or dream'd of such advance- 

You need not school me, signor; I sate in 

That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time; I have 
heard him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt; yet most men like to live 

Doge. And did not they? [their days out. 

Lor. The grave knows best; they died, 
As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange. 

That you repeat the word emphatically? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was 
there death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you : 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all 
things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison, 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so? 

Doge, I ! — 'Tis true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their sons e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs; but I was openly their foe; 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I 

am; but were I [ere now 

That you would have me thought, you long 

Were past the sense of fear. Hate on; I 

care not,* 

L.or^ I never yet knew that a noble's life 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



479 



In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least ivas^ more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down ; be sure. 
Before, or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would have made you nothing. But in all 

things 
I have observed the strictest reverence; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have 
(I do not speak of _>/(7« but as a single [strain'd 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce, or my authority, 
Were I disposed to brawl; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honor, the decrees. 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, do your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed. 

That, without further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, [is 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt 
(** The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan's his), 
James Foscari return to banishment. 
And sail in the same galley which convey'd him. 

Alar, Thank God! At least they will not 
drag him more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom. 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. I 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, myj 
daughter. [his exile?' 

Mar, No, 'twas too human. May I share 

Lor. Of this the ** Ten " said nothing. 

Mar, So I thought! 

That were too human also. But it was not 
Inhibited? 

Lor. It was not named. 

Mar. ITo the Doge]. Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

\To LOREDANO. 

And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband? 

Doge, I will endeavor. 

Mar, And you, signor? 

L^r. Lady ! 



'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunai. 

Mar, Pleasure! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

Doge, Daughter^ know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things? 

Mar, A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor, Subject! 

Mar. Oh! 

It galls you: — well, you are his equal, as 
You think; but that you are not, nor would be. 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you're a prince, 
A princely noble; and what then am I? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
The presence that should silence my free 
thoughts? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar, Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared me- 
chanics. 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, [slaves. 
And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and your other slaves. 
To whom your midnight carryings off and 

drownings. 
Your dungeons next to palace roofs, or under 
The water's level; your mysterious meetings. 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your ** Bridge of Sighs," your strangling 

chamber, and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world! 
Keep such for them; I fear ye not; I know ye; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the 

infernal 
Process of my poor husband! Treat me as 
Ye treated him: — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to fear/V^w you; 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not? 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady! words 

Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge! have you aught in answer? 

Doge, Something from 

The Doge; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 



48o 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act II, 



The Doge will choose his own ambassador. 
Or state in person what is meet; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember 7nine, — Farewell! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. \Exit Loredano, 

Alar. Are you content? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that's a mystery. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals; who 
can read them 
Save He who made? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored 
upon [and brain, 

Those black and bloody leaves, his heart 
But learn a magic, which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it; all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own; 
All our advantages are those of fortune; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness. 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want. 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all pas- 
Aloof, save fear of famine! All is low, fsions 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons; our whole being on 
Something which is not us! — So, we are 

slaves, 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes 

as much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn' d in some old 

world, 
And this is hell: the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. [each other. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is: my reign has doubled realms; 



And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. AndFoscari? I do not think of such 
So I be left with him. [things, 

Doge. You shall be so; 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar^ And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly? 

Mar. I know not, reck not — 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Anywhere, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade 
And turn him into traitor? [for husband, 

Mar. He is none! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st such laws as make old 
A code of mercy by comparison. [Draco's 

Doge. I found the law; I did not make it, 
I Were I 

!a subject, still I might find parts and portions 
I Fit for amendment; but as prince, I never 
i Would change, for the sake of my house, the 
' Left by our fathers, [charter 

Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, anddays, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
Amongst us), all that history has bequeath'd 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times. 
The people sway'd by senates. [when 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so; 

But yet subdued the world: in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigOFs 

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge ' 
than father. 

Doge. It means I am more citizen than i 
If we had not for many centuries [either. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



481 



Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city, j 

Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! | 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all,| 
Not without feeling, but I would have given 
To the state's service, to fulfill her wishes [them 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage ** Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. V\\ 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. [him 

Mar. And nothing more? Will you not see 
Ere he depart! It may be the last time. 

Doge. The last! — my boy! — the last time I 
shall see 
My last of children! Tell him I will come. 

{^Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Prison of] \coto Foscari. 
yac. Eos. [so/us]. No light save yon faint 

gleam which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds. 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair! 
And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, 

which wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts; but I knew them not, and here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when wheel- 
High in the air on her return to greet [ing 
Her callow brood. What letters are these which 
[Approaching the wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall? 
Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah! the 
Of my sad predecessors in this place, f nam6iS 
The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 



Holds like an epitaph their history; 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on. 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name. Alas! 
I recognize some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
Fittest for such a chronicle as this. 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 
[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of ^^ the Ten.^' 

Earn. I bring you food. 

Jac. Eos. I pray you set it d«wn; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd 

The water! 

Ea7n. There. [better. 

Jac. Eos. [after drinking^ . I thank you : I am 

Eam. I am commanded to inform you that 
Your further trial is postponed. 

Jac. Eos. Till when? 

Eam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

Jac. Eos. Ah! they relent, then — I had 
'Twas time. [ceased to hope it: 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Eos. [embracing her] . My true wife, 
And only friend! What happiness! 

Mar. ' We'll part 

No more. [geon? 

yac. Eos. How! wouldst thou share a dun- 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — anything with thee. 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? 
Why do I ask? Thy paleness [Alas! 

yac. Eos. 'Tis the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina! 

Mar. Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke. 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine 
eyes — [sparkle ! 

No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they 

j^ac. Eos. And thine! but I am blinded by 
the torch. [see here? 

Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou 



482 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act hi. 



Jac. Fos. Nothing at first; but use and time 
had taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness; 
And the grey twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice: but a moment ere 
Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 

Mar. What? [ — next 

Jac. Fos. My name: look,'tis there recorded 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Alar. And what of him? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's 
ends; they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead. 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of hi??iP 
Thou askest. — What of me? may soon be ask'd, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful sur- 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. [mise — 

Alar. I speak oi XhtQl 

^ac. Fos» And wherefore not? All then 
snail speak of me; 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, [groans 
And, though events be hidden, just . men's 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty? 

Alar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but 'tis 
a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient; 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death. 
And torture positive, far worse than death 
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan. 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this- small dungeon, 
I may breathe many years. [where 

Mar. Alas! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

jfac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid 
me to endure it. 
My doom is common; many are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's pal- 
ace; [hope 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day: for, save the gaoler's torch, 
ind a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 



Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no. 
For I have such, and shown it before men; 
It sinks in solitude: my soul is social. 

Alar. I will be with thee. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, if it were so! 

But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone: no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind. 
Which they term annals, history, what you 
will, [were 

Which men bequeath as portraits, and they 
Refused me, — so these walls have been my 

study. 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The Hall not far from hence, which bears on 

high 
Plundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

Alar. I come to tell the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

yac. Fos, I know it — look! 

[He points to his limbs ^ as referring to the 
Question which he had undergone. 

Alar. No — no — no more of that: even they 
From that atrocity. [relent 

Jac. Fos. What then? 

Mar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms. 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course; but there y afar, 
In that accursed isle of slaves and captives, 
And unbehevers, like a stranded wreck, 
My vei-y soul seemed mouldering in my bo- 
som. 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Alar. And here ? [briefer. 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as 
What! would they even deny me my sire's 
As well as home and heritage? [sepulchre, 

Alar. My husband! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism; for me. 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I^ould not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise; its first inhabitants 



SCENX I.] 



THE rWO FOSCARL 



483 



Were wretched exiles, 

^ac. Fos, Well I know how wretched! 

Mar, And yet you see how, from their ban- 
ishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;* 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus? 

Jac. Fos. Had- 1 gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, 

seeking 
Another region with their flocks and herds; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, [try, 

I would have given some tears to my late coun- 
And many thoughts; but afterwards ad- 
Myself,with those about me, to create [dress'd 
A new home and fresh state; perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar, Wherefore not? 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, [ber 
Their numbers and success; but who can num- 
The hearts which broke in silence at that part- 
Or after their departure; of that maladyf [ing, 
Which calls up green and native fields to view. 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrain'd from tieading them ? 
That melody, J which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From the snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous 
thought, [strength, 

And dies. You call this weakness! It is 
I say, — the parent of all honest feeling, 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then; 'tis she that puts thee 
forth. [curse 

jfac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 'tis like a mother's 



* In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
Italy, I perceive the expression of "Rome of the 
Ocean" applied to Venice. The same phrase occurs in , 
the " Two Foscari." My publisher can vouch for me, 
that the tragedy was written and sent to England some | 
time before 1 had seen Lady Morgan's work, which Ij 
only received on the i6th of August. I hasten, how- ' 
ever, to notice the coincidence, and to yield the original- 
ity of the phrase to her who first placed it before the 
public. 

t The Calenture, a mental disease peculiar to sailors 
in hot climates. I 

X Alluding to the Swiss air, Ranz des Vaches, and its i 
effecte. ' 



Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations. 
Their hands upheld each other by the way. 
Their tents were pitch'd together — I'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go 
with thee. 

Jac, Fos. My best Marina! and our children? 

Mar, They, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy (whch holds all ties 
As threads which may be broken at her pleas- 
Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. [ure), 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them? 

Mar. Yes. W^ith many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are. 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 

yac. Fos. Have I not borne? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
Which, as compared with what you have un- 
Of late, is mercy. [dergone 

yac. Fos, Ah! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you 

never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory. 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision [not. 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us 
think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city 
(Since you must love it, as it seems), and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles: we must sail ere night. 

yac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not be- 

Mar. You will. [hold my father? 

yac. Fos. Where? 

Mar. Here, or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could 
Your exile as he bears it. [bear 

yac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from ** the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated! 

What pangs are those they have spared you? 



484 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



[act III. 



yac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 
Upon my former exile. ['twas 

Mar. That is tiue, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor. 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
Who dares accuse my country? 

Alar^ Men and angels! 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in 
dungeons, [subjects. 

Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and 
Held in the bondage often bald-heads; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence! Couldst 

thou say 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it[ 
To our departure. Who comes here? [must be, 

Enter Loredano, attended by the Familiars. 

Lor. [to the Familiar s\. Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

yac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 

I did not deem this poor place could have 
Such presence hither. [drawn 

Lor» 'Tis not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce ** the Ten's " decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated: it is known. 

Lor. As how? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently. 
Doubtless, as your nice feelings would pre- 
scribe, [knew it. 
The indulgence of your colleagues: but he 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and 
hence! [you, 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

yac. Fos. I pray you, calm you: 

What can avail such words? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 



Mar. I have some sons, sir, 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then? 

yac. Fos. Return to Candia? 

Lor. True — 

For life. 

ycu. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said — for life. 

yac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

yac. Fos. Both the same to me: the after 
Freedom as is the first imprisonment, 
Is't true my wife accompanies me? 

Lor^ Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar. Who obtain'd that justice? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men; howsoever, let him have viy thanks 
For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are offer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

So much! — no more. 

yac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission? 
Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Mar. Nobler! 

Lor. How nobler? 

Mar. As more generous! 

We say the ** generous steed" to express the 
purity [although > 

Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze), 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the 
Of Egypt and her neighbor Araby: [coasts 
And why not say 2is soon tht** generous man.^' 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back and pore 
Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater! • 

yac. Fos. Again, Marina! 

A/ar. Again! j/?// Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery? 
Let him partake it! 



SCENE I.J 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



455 



nks fit; I 
mor, for / 
lis cold heart. 



Jac, Fos, That were difficult. 

Mar* Nothing more easy. He partakes it 

► Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow [now — 

And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 

A few brief words of truth shame the devil's 

servants 
No less than master; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, [me ! 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from 
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit; 
They are his weapons, not his armor. 
I have pierced him to the core of his 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the veiy worst 
Of destini^^s; each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac, Fos, This is mere insanity. 

Mar, It may be so; and who hath made us 

Lor, Let her go on: it irks not me. [mad^ 

Mar, That's false! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my hus- 
band; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from 
him! [nor, as 

How have you sped? We are wretched, sig- 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could 
And \iO\f feel you? [desire us. 

Lor, As rocks. 

Mar^ By thunder blasted. 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
-Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 

Enter the Doge. 

Jac, Fos, My father! [my son! 

Doge [embracing hint] . Jacopo I my son — 

jfac. Fos, My father still! How long is it 
since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

Doge. My boy! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge, I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar, Doge, look there ! 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou? 

Mar. Caution! 

Ljr. Being 

The virtue v/hich this noble lady most 



May practice, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
I As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge, Daughter, it is superfluous; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor, You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes : worse he could not. 

yac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings? 

Doge, You behold 

These white hairs! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 
Will never be so white. Embrace me, father! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. [ren : 
Look to my children — to your last child's child- 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see the?n also? 

Mar, No — not here, 

yac, Fos. They might behold their parent 
anywhere. 

Mar, I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love. 
To freeze their young blood in its natural cur- 
rent, [that 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know his fate may one day be a heritage; 
But let it only be their he7'itagey 
And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror; [wave 
And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green 
Which floats above the place where we now 
A cell so far below the water's level, [stand — 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them ; this is not their atmosphere. 
However you — and you — and most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano! 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

yac. Fos., I have not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them? 

Doge. Not so: they shall await you in ray 
chamber. 

yac. Fos, And must I leave tliem — all? 

Lor, You must. 

yac. Fos, Not one? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

Mar. I thought they had been nvne. 

Lor, They are, in all maternal things. 

Mar. . That is 

In all things painful. If they're sick/ they will 
Be left to me to tend them: should they die. 



486 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[act rv. 



To me to bury and to mourn; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles — what j^w will; or if they are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for 

nobles! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is 
fair. [the genial wind 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom? 

Lor. 'Twas so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the ** Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos, Father! I pray you to precede me, 
and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my son! 

jfac. Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Mar, Farewell ! at least to this detested dun- 
And him to whose good offices you owe [geon. 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos, No doubt! but 'tis 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe 

him. 
He knows this or he had not sought to change 
But I reproach not. [them. 

Lor. The time narrows, signer. 

yac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell. 
Is une away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy, no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the 
rack [now. 

To shame him, and they cannot shame him 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind 
And I will find an hour to wipe away [heart — 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far. [now. 
Let as proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

L^or. [lo Familiar^. The torch, there! 

Alar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre. 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours? 

Lor. Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; 'twill sting you. 
Signor, 
Stand off! be sure, thai if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are 
plunged, 



No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari,take the hand the altar gave you; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. * 

[Exeuni. 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Hail in the Ducal Palace, 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Far. And you have confidence in such a 

Lor, I have. [project? 

Bar. 'Tis hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'Twill break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Sweri^ed. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son? 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is ta- 
Time to admonish them again. [ken. 'Tis 

Bar. Forbear; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign. 
As the first of his son's last banishment, 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, 
the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope), to beg him 
To have the courtesy lo abdicate. 

Bar. What if he will not? 



SCENE 1.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



487 



We'll elect another, 



Lor. 
And make him null. 
• Bar. But will the laws uphold us? 

Lor, What laws? — '* The Ten" are laws; 
and if they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar* At your own peril? 

Lor, There is none, I tell you, 

Our powers are such. 

Bar, But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire. 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances: 
If they were from his heart, he may be thank- 
If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. [ful: 

Come, they are met by this time; let us join 

them. 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him: since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been 
sounded, do not [pause, 

You^ with your wonted scruples, teach us 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them; 'tis his throne 
Alone IS aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar, And why not wait these few years? 

Lor, Because we have waited long enough, 

and he [cil! 

Lived longer than enough. Hence! into coun- 

\Exeufit LOREDANO and Barbarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to *« the Ten!" why so? 

Mem. ** The Ten" 

Alone can answer; they are truly wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summon'd — 
That is enough. 

Sen, For them, but not for us; 

I would know why. 

Me77i. You will know why anon, 

If you obey: and, if not, you.no less 



Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen, I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem, In Venice ^^ but'''' 's a traitor. 

But me no ** butSf*^ unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate? "The Ten " have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
And I another; and it seems to me 
Both honor'd by the choice or chance which 
To mingle with a body so august. [leads us 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Me7?i. As we hope, signor. 

And all may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may), one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sefi. Let us view them: they 

No doubt are worth it. 

Me7n. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Me7n. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying **the Ten's" summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let's in. 

Me7}t. The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and 
Marina. 

Jac. Eos. Ah, father! though I must and will 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me [depart, 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time, as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'd they please. 
But let me still return. 

Doge, Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will: 'tis not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Eos, But still I must 

Look back, I pray you think of me. 

Dos^e. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last; but did the state demand 



488 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[act IV. 



The exile of the disinterred ashes 

Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 

And their desponding shades came flitting 

round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband! let us on: this butpro- 
Our sorrow. [longs 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd: who 
The wind may change. [knows? 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot; the galley's 
Will quickly clear the harbor. [oars 

Jac. Fos. O ye elements ! 

Where are your storms? 

Mar. In human breasts. Alas! 

Will nothing calm you? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for pros- 
perous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves. 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the* barren Lido, [skirt 
Where I may mingle with the sands which 
The land I love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar, And wish you this with 7ne beside you? 

Jac. Fos, No— 

No — not for thee, too good, too kind! May'st 

thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
Of such support! But for myself alone, 
May all the winds of heaven howl down the 
And tear the vessel, till the mariners, [Gulf, 
Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me. 
As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering 
To appease the waves. The billow which 

destroys me 
Will be more merciful than man, and bear me 
Dead, but sti// bear me to a native grave. 
From fishers' hands, upon the desolate strand. 
Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er re- 
ceived 
One lacerated like the heart which then 
Will be. — But wherefore breaks it not? why 
live I? [master 

Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to 
h'uch useless passion. Until now thou wert 
f^ sufferer, but not a loud one: why, 
vv'hif is this to the things thcji hast borne in 
silence — 



Imprisonment and actual torture? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee! but no less thou hast it, 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doge. What? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 
And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you), for the gift of life. 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What hast thou done? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter! 

Mar. Fear not : thafs reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. Hope not? 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have 
inflicted. [thousand-fold 

Mar, All! the consummate fiends! a 
May the worm which ne 'er dieth feed upon 
them! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar, And if they do, Heaven will not 
Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

OM. Signor! the boat is at the shore — the 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. [wind 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more. 
Your hand! [father, 

Doge. Take it. Alas! how thine own 
trembles! [shakes, my father. 

Jac. Fos. No — you mistake: 'tis yours that 
Farewell! 

Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No — nothing. \^To M^ Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Offi. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho! some aid 
Some water I [there! 

Mar» Ah, he is dying! 

Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where's the door? 

Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him — my best love ! O God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this puhe! 

Jac. Fos. The light! 

Is it the lijrht? — I am faint. 

JOfficek presents him with wattr. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



4^9 



Offi, He will be better, 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac, Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 
Your hands! [grasp. 

Mar. There's death in that damp, clammy 
Oh, God! — My Foscari, how fare you? 

"^ac.Fos. . \Ne\\\\He dies, 

Offi. He's gone ! 

Doge, He's free. 

Mar. No — no, he is not dead; 

There must be life y«t in that heart — he could 
Thus leave me. [not 

Doge, Daughter! 

Mar, Hold thy peace, old man! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari! 

Ojffi. We must remove the body. 

Mar, Touch it not, dungeon miscreants 

your base office [der. 

Ends with his life, and goes not beyond mur- 

Even by your murderous laws. Leave his re 

To those who know to honor them. [mains 

Offi, I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge. Inform the signory from me^ the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes; 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy! 

{^Exit Officer. 

Mar, And I must live! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar, My children! true — they live, and I 
must live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so! 

Doge, My unhappy children! 

Mar. What! 

You feel it then at last — you I — Where is now 
The stoic of the state! 

Doge, [throwing himself down by the body.\ 
Here! 

Mar. Ay, weep on! 

I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
Until they are useless; but weep on! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Lor. What's here? 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead! 
Incarnate Lucifer! 'tis holy ground. [Avaunt! 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 

Bar. Lady, we knew nut of this sad event, 
But pass'd here merely on our path from coun- 

Mar. Pass on. [cil. 



Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. [pointing to the Doge, who is still on 
the ground by his son's body]. He's busy, 
look. 
About the business jj^^w provided for him. 
Are ye content? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. No, ye only make them. 

Then leave them. 

Doge, [rising]. Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — not now. 

Lor. Yet 'twas important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can. 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which 
you bring 
Are evil, you may say them; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on 

there; 
If they be good, say on: you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could ! 

Doge. I spoke not to you, hut to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar, Ah! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you? 

Mar. Lo! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[To Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds! 

Doge. My child! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [To his attendants]. 

Signors, if it please you. 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

[Exeunt DoGE, Marina, and attendants 
with the body, Manent Loredano and 
Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble further. 

Bar. ' These are words; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world. 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business? 



490 



THE TWO FOSCARI, 



[ACT IV. 



Lor, The thing's decreed. The Giunta and 
*Mhe Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law? 

Bar. ilunianity! 

Lor. Because his son is dead? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I'll not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable? 

Lor, Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 

My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal; he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons — and he had four — are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sure 

He dealt in such? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar, And yet he seems 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor? 

Lor. Even so: when /^^, 

After the very night in which ** the Ten " 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruc- 
tion, 
Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
** The good day or good night?" his Doge- 
ship answer'd, 
** That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
In wliich (he added with a gracious smile), 



There often has been question about you."* 
j 'Twas true ; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died; 
I And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, 
I smiled on him [beforehand — 

With deadly cozenage, eight long months 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never smiled on iheni. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its savior first, then victim. 

Bar Ah! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to our sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a 
To him who took a city; and then gave [crown 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle; the rewards are equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroy 'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fix'd? 

Lor. Why, what should change me? 

Bar. That which changes me: 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons all dead, his family depress'd. 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error, and you'll find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

L^or. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing 

towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature! There is no 
passion 
More spectral or fantastical than Hate; 
Not even its opposite, Love, 30 peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 

Enter an Officer. 
Lor. Where go you, sirrah? 
Offi. By the ducal order 
To forward the preparatory rites 



* An historical fact. See Daru, torn. ii. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



491 



For the late Foscari*s interment. 

Bar, Their 

Vault has been often open'd of late years. 

Lor, 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed 

Offi. May I pass on? [forever. 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. How bears the Doge 

This last calamity? 

Ojffi. With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then; 
And once or twice I heard him, from the ad- 
joining [son!" 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — ** My 
Scarce audibly, I must proceed. 

l^Exii Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right! 

We must be speedy: let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The Council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless, [mine. 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or 
\Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 

ACT V. 
Scene I. — The Doge's Apart?fteni. 
The Doge ^zw^/ Attendants. 
Aii. My lord, the deputation is in waiting, 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 
Doge. To me all hours are alike. Let them 
approach. [^jrz/ Attendant. 

An Officer, Prince! I have done your bid- 
ding. 
Doge. What command? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attend- 

Of [ance 

Doge. True — true — true — I crave your par- 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and [don. I 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of 
the Signory and the Chief of the Ten, 

Noble men, your pleasure! 

Chief of the Ten, In the first place, the 

Council doth condole 

With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no- more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 



'Accept the homage of respect? 
Doge. 



I do 



Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. <* The Ten," 

With a selected Giunta from the senate 
I Of twenty-five of the best born patricians. 
Having deliberated on the state 
j Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
I Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
i Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
j Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
(Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this). 
The resignation of the ducal ring, 
Which you have worn so long and venerably: 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
j Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
Doge. Did I hear rightly? 
Chief of the Ten. Need I say again? 

Doge. No — Have you done? [four 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty- 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay! four-and-twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
Chief of the Te^t, Speak! 
Doge, When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me: 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew the instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
According to my honor and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree. 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the coun- 
try's. • 
I am ready to lay down my life for her. 
As I have laid down dearer things than life: 
I But for my dignity — I hold it of 
The whole republic; when \h& general vi\S\. 
Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 

Chief of the Ten, We grieve for such an an- 

Avail you aught. [swer; but it cannot 

Doge. I can submit to all things. 

But nothing will advance; no, not a moment. 



492 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



[ACT V. 



What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten, With this, then, must we! 
Return to those who sent us? 

Doge. Vi)u have heard me.: 

Chief of the Ten. Witli all due reverence | 
we retire. \Exetintthe Deputation, (Sr^c. 

Enter ati Attendant. 
Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar, My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone? 

Doge. Alone? 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We will, and for the sake of those who 
Endeavor Oh, my husband! [are. 

Doge. Give it way : j 

I cannot comfort thee. • 

Mar, He might have lived,' 

So formed for gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved; the native of \ 

Another land, and who so blest and blessing ; 
As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar, Yes; all things which conduce to other 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition, [men's! With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 



Country and home. I loved hivi — how I loved 

him! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he 

is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
Have nought to give but tears! But could I 

compass 
The retribution of his wrongs! — Well, well! 
I have sons, who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief distracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when 
I saw him 
Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolong'd captivity: — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his 
grave ! 
Doge. I must look on him once more. 
Mar. Come with me! 

Doge, Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

And he is in his shroud ! 

Come, come, old man! 
[Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar, [To an Attendant]. Where is the 

Doge? 
Att, This instant retired hence, 



Doge. 
Mar, 



By some strange destiny,to him proved deadly 
The country and the people whom he loved, 
The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, 
and now aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume their gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh, the tyrants! 

In such an hour too! 

Doge. 'Tis the fittest time; 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it? — Oh, for ven- 
geance! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected. 
Might have repaid protection in this moment. 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar, They tortured from him. This 
May be pure patriotism. I am a woman: 
To mc my husband ana my children were 



Lor. Where? 

Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar, Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office: they'll be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the 
Doge? [done promptly. 

Lor, 'Twas his own wish that all should be 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more? 

Bar. Die in his robes: 

He could not have lived long; but I have done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither? 

Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such differ- 
ent thoughts [tongues 
From ours should be a witness, lest false 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for 
the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opp'osition. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



493 



You are ingenious, Loredano, in 

Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 

A very Ovid in the art of hating; 

'Tis thus (although a secondary object. 

Yet hate has microscopic eyes), to you 

I owe by way of foil to the more zealous, 

This undesired association in 

Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor, How! — my Giunta! 

Bar. Yours! 

They speak your language, watch your nod, 

approve \yours? 

Your plans, and do your work. Are they not 

Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they 
This from you. [hear not 

Bar^ Oh! they'll hear as much one day 
From louder tongues than mine; they have 

gone beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power: and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor, You talk but idly. 

Bar, That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before, . 

Chief of the Ten, Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence? 

Att, He shall be informed. 

{Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so. 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 

Lor. [aside to Bar.]. Now the rich man's 
hell-fire upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable! I'll have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage 
I pray ye be not hasty. [signors, 

[Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human! 

I^or^ See, the Duke comes! 

Enter the Doge. 

Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to 
urge our past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What! 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten, H ea.r you then the last 
Definitive and absolute! [decree. 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point! I know of old the forms of office. 
And gentle preludes to strong acts. — Go on! 



Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge; 
you are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the 
treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke! 

Lor, Your answer, Francis Foscari! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief [age 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
days named extended. 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signor, 

Nor even eight minutes — there's the ducal ring, 
[Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Te7t. You go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir. 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
A face I know not. — Senator! your name; 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty! 

Mem. Signor, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — But sons and 
What, ho! my servants there! [fathers J 

Atten, My prince! 

Doge, No prince — ► 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing 

to the Ten's deputation^ , — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that; 

[To the Ten, 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves: 

[ To the Se?'vants, 
There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
With care, although 'tis past all further harm- 
But I will look to that myself. 



494 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



[act v. 



Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge, And call Marina, 

My daughter! 

Enter MARINA. 

Doge. Get thee ready, we must mourn 

Elsewhere, 

Mar. And everywhere. 

Doge. True; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors,you may depart • what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you; but I curse not. Adieu, good signers! 
May the next duke be better than the present! 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 

Doge, Not till I pass the threshold of these 
doors. 

Lor. St. Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven! 

Ye will reverberate this peal; and I [heard 
Live to hear this; — the first Doge who e'er 
Such sound for his successor: happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What! 

Do you regret a traitor? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you 
The landing place of the canal. [towards 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giant's Stairs, on whose 
Ijroad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have call'd me up those steps. 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five-and-thirty years ago was I 
Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from 
I never thought to be divorced except [which 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for 

them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
But come; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and 1 to pray for mine. 



Chief of the Ten. What! thus in public! 
Doge. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina! art thou willing? 

Mar. Here's my arm! 

Doge. And here my staff : thus propp'd will 
I go forth. [will perceive it. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people 
Doge. The people ! — There's no people, you 
well know it. 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you; but they dare not groan or 
Save with their hearts and eyes, [curse you. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion. 
Else: 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont: it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you. 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect. 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say! 
My brethren, will we not? 

Different voices . Ay ! — Ay ! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults. 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am «<7«^.'— That's 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah! [false. 

Lor. liark! 

[ The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 

Bar. The bell! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for 
Of Malipiero. [the election 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound! I heard it once, but once before. 
And that is five and thirty years ago; 
Even then I was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No; my seat here has been a throne 
Marina! let us go. [till now. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge, \walks afew steps and then stops\. I 
feel athirst — will no one bring me here 



SCENE I.] 



THE TH'O fOSCAkL 



49S 



A cup of water? 

Bar. I 

Mar, And I 

Lor, And I 

[ The Doge takes a goblet from the hand of 
LOREDANO. 

Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the 
Most fit for such an hour as this. [hand 

Lor. Why so? 

Doge, 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as [has 

To burst, if aught ofvemon touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Lor. Well, sir! 

Doge, Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither, 'tis 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah! now you look as look'd my 
husband! [chair — support him. 

Bar. He sinks! — support him! — quick — a 

Doge, The bell tolls on! — let's hence — my 
brain's on fire ! 

Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

Doge, No ! 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor 

Off with your arms! — That bell! [boy! — 

\The Doge drops down and dies. 

Mar. My God! My God! 

Bar. [/^LoR.] Behold! your work's com- 
pleted! 

Chief of the Ten, Is there then 

No aid? Call in assistance! 

Att. 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his 
obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation. 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd: then let his funeral rites be 
princely. 

Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then? 

All, except Lor., answer , Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with 
him! 

Mar, Signors, your pardon : this is mockery ! 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your 
empire, [glory,) 

And made your power as proud as was his 
You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 



From his high place, with such relentless 

coldness; [honors, 

And now, when he can neither know these 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, 

signors. 
Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp. 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten, Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar, I know it, 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond tYtnyoUy 
Though (some no doubt) consign'd to powers 

which may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly 
It is my last of duties, and may prove [shorten'd : 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do you 

Pretend still to this office? 

Mar. I do, signor. [sumed 

Though his possessions have been all con- 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry. 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 

And those of [She stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten, Best retain it for your 

children. 

Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 

Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and fol- 

low'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senator. [in^^err'd 
Mar, I have heard of murderers, who have 
Their victims; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy [tears — * 
O'er those they slew. I've heard of widows* 



* The Venetians appear to have had a particular turn 
for breaking the hearts of their Doges. The following 
is another instance of the kind in the Doge Marco Bar- 
barigo ; he was succeeded bv his brother Agostino Bar- 
barigo, whose chief merit is here mentioned, — Le doge, 
blesse de trouver constamment un contradicteur et un 
ceHseur si amer dans son frere, lui dit un jour en plein 
conseil ; " Messire Augustin, vous faites tout votre pos- 
sible pour hater ma mort ; vous vous flattez de me suc- 
ceder ; mais, si les autres vous connaissent aussi bien que 
je vous connais, ils n'auront garde de vous elire." La- 
dessus il se leva, emu de colere, rentra dans son apparte- 
ment, et mourut quelques jours apres. Ce frere, centre 
lequel il s'etait emporte, fut precisement le successeur 
qu'on lui donna. Cetait un merite dont on aimait k tenir 
compte ; surtout a un parent, de s'etre mis en opposition 
avec le chef de la republique." — Daru, Hist, de Venz'se, 
t. il p. 533. 



496 



CAW, 



Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you! 
I've heard oUieirs in sables — you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done, as one 
I trust. Heaven's will be done too! [<^a-y, 

C/iief of the Ten, Know you, lady, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech? 

Mar. I know the former better than your- 
selves; 
The latter — like yourselves; and can face both. 
\Vish you more funerals? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 



Chief of the Ten. We will not note them 

down. 
Bar. [turning to LOR., who is writing upon 

his tablets] . What art thou writing, 

With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets? 

Lor. [pointing to the Doge's body\ . That 

he has paid me!* 
Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you? 
Lor, A long and just one; Nature's debt 

and z?«W. Curtain falls .\ 



* " V ha pagata.*' An historical fact. 
Venise, par P. Daru, t. ii. p. 411. 



See Hist, d* 



CAIN: 

A MYSTERY, 
1821. 

*Now the Serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made,"— Gen. ili. 1. 



TO SIR W^ALTER SCOTT, BART., 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEXD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The following scenes are entitled " A Mystery/' in conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were styled " Mysteries, or Moralities.'* The author has by no means taken the same 
liberties with his subject which were common formerly, as may be seen by any reader curious enough to refer to 
those very profane productions, whether in English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavored to 
preserve the language adapted to his characters ; and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual Scrip- 
ture, he has made as little alteration, even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The reader will recollect that 
the book of Genesis does not state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by **the serpent;" and that only 
because he was "the most subtle of all the beasts of the field." Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the 
Fathers may have put upon this, I take the words as I find them, and reply, with Bishop Watson upon similar occa- 
sions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, "Behold the Book!" — 
holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected that my present subject has nothing to do with the New Testa- 
ment, to which no reference can be here made without anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I have 
not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
before, that this may make little difference. Gesner's Death of Abel I have never read since I was eight years 
of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of my recollection is delight ; but of the contents I remember only 
that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's Thirza : in the following pages I have called them " Adah *' and 
"Zillah," the earliest female names which occur in Genesis : they were those of Lamech's wives : those of Cain and 
Abel are not called by their names. Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have caused the same ex- 
pression, I know nothing, and care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few choose to recollect), that there is no allusion to a future state 
in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary omission, he 
may consult Warburton's Divine Legation: whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet been assigned. I have 
therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon the 
same subjects; but I have done what I could to restrain him within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not 
the most distant allusion to anything of the kind, but merely to the Serpent, in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that the 
world had been destroyed several times before the creation of man. TTiis speculation, derived from the different 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN, 



497 



strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but 
rather confirms it; as no human bones have yet been discovered in those strata, although those of many known 
animals are found near the remains of the unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre- Adamite world was 
also peopled by rational beings much more intelligent than man, and proportionably powerful to the mammoth, 
etc., etc., is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia " of Alfieri, called ^^<?/<?.— I have never read that, nor any 
other of the posthumous works of the writer, except his Life. 



MEN. 

Adam. 

Cain. 

Abel. 



DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 

SPIRITS. 

Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 



WOMEN. 

Eve. 
Adah. 

ZiLLAH. 



ACT I, 

Scene I. — The Land without Paradise. — 

Time, Sunrise, 
Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, 
offering a sacrifice. 
Adam. GoD, the EternaL' Infinite! All- 
wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve, God! who didst name the day and 
separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of Thy work the firmament — all hail! 

Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds, which these illuminate, 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and Thee — all hail! all 
hail! 
Adah, God,the Eternal! Parent of all things! 
V/ho didst create these best and beauteous 

beings. 
To be beloved, more than all, save Thee — 
Let me love Thee and them: — All hail! all 
hail! [ing all, 

Zillah, O God! who loving, making, bless- 
Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in, 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil:— Hail! all hail! 
Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore 
Cain. Why should I speak? [art thou silent? 
AdcLVt. To pray. 

Cain, Have ye not prayed? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 
Cain. And loudly: I 

Have heard yeu. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Mel. Amen! 



Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. [still. 

Adam. W^herefore so? 

Cain. I have nought to ask. 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live? 

Cain. Must I not die? 

Eve. Alas! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again, [ledge? 
O God ! why didst Thou plant the tree of know- 

Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree 
Ye might have then defied Him. [of life? 

Adam. Oh! my son. 

Blaspheme not: these are serpents' words. 

Cain. Why not? 

The snake spoke truth; it was the tree of know- 
ledge; 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
And life is good: and how can both be evil? 

Eve. My boy! thou speakest as I spoke, in 
Before thy birth: let me not see renew'd [sin. 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroyed his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been bv), 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 

Adav/i. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful: the earth is young, and yields us 
Her fruits with little labor. [kindly 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

i Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd. 
I And do as he doth. [Exeunt AvAUandExE. 
j Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother? 

I Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon 

thy brow, 
* Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouie 



i 



49« 



CAIN. 



[act I. 



The Eternal anger? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me? 

Cai7i. No, Adah! no; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart; ])ut it will pass. 
Precede me, brother — 1 will follow shortly. 
And you too, sisters, tarry not behind; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met; 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother! 

\Exeunt Abel, Zillah and Adah. 

Cain. \solus\. And this is 

Life! — Toil! and wherefore should I toil? — 

because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden! 
What had /done in this? — I was unborn: 
I sought not to be born; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did 
Yield to the serpent and the woman? or, [he 
Yielding, why suffer? What was there in this? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre? They have but 
One answer to all questions, ** 'Twas His will. 
And //J? is good." How know I that? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here? — A shape like to the 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect [angels. 
Of spiritual essence: why do I quake? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits. 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere tiie night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd 
angels, [proaches? 

Why should I quail from him who now ap- 
Yct he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be: sorrow seems 
rialf of his immortality. And is it 
To? and can aught grieve save humanity? 
I [e Cometh. 

Enter LuciFER. 

Lucifer. Mortal! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou? 

Lucifer. Master of Spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 



Leave them and walk with dust? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain. How? 

You know my thoughts? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cai7t. What immortal part? 

This has not been reveal'd: the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly. 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee; thou 
shalt live. 

Cain. I live. 

But live to die: and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate cling- 
A loathsome, and yet all invincible [ing. 

Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived! 

Lucifer. Thoulivest, and must live forever; 
think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less! and why 

No more? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain, Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I be so? Look on me! 

Lucifer. Poor clay: 

And thou pretendest to be wretched! Thou I 

Cain. I am: — and thou, with all thy might, 
what art thou? [thee, and 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah! 

Thou look*st almost a god; and 

Lucifer. I am none: 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what 1 am. He conquer'd; let Him reign ! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing, and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing 
and -ay, on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



499 



Cain. And what is that? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immor- 
tality- 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell Him that 
His evil is not good! If He has made, 
As He saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But if He made us — He cannot unmake; 
We are immortal — nay, HeM have us so. 
That He may torture: let Him. He is great — 
But, in his greatness, no happier than 
We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
Evil : and what else hath he made ? But let Him 
Sit on His vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burthensome to His immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude; 
Let Him crowd orb on orb : He is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant; [boon 

Could He but crush Himself, 'twere the best 
He ever granted: but, let Him reign on, 
And multiply Himself in misery! 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathize — 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable. 
By the unbounded sympathy of all 
With all! But He ! so wretched in His height. 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
Create, and re-create [long have swum 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which 
In visions through my thought! I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees; I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by liery-sworded cherubim, [weight 
Which shut them out, and me: I feel the 
Of daily toil and constant thought : I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things — but I thought alone, 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the 
Of an eternal curse; my brother is [risk 

A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock' to Him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat; 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathize with me. 
'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by 
thine own soul 
for such companionship, I wovild not now 



Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

Cain. Ah! didst thou tempt my mother? 

Lucifer. I tempt none. 

Save with the truth: was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful? Did /bid her pluck them not? 
Did / plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence? I would have made ye 
Gods: and even He who thrust ye forth, so 

thrust ye 
Because ** ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
And become gods as We." Were those His 
words? 

Cain, They were, as I have heard from those 
In thunder. [who heard them, 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live forever in the joy 
And power of knowledge? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither. 

Lucifer. One is yours already ; 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How so? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents? 

Lucifer. I? 

Poor clay! what should I tempt them for, or 
how? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that? It is not written so on high: 
The Proud One will not so far falsify. 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing, The snake was the 
snake — [tempted, 

No more, and yet not less than those he 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdoniy 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things that 

Cain. But the thing had a demon? [die? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thou- 
sand ages [seed's. 
Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and yeur 
The seed of the then world may thus array 



5oo 



cAm, 



f ACT 1. 



Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all [bendj 
That bows to Him, who made things but to 
Before His sullen, sole eternity; I 

But we who see the truth must speak it. Thy, 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt i 

them? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou 

know'st not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not 

know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer, And heart to look on? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Darest thou look on Death? 

Cain, He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 

Cai7i. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my 
mother [his eyes 

Weeps when he is named; and Abel lifts 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer: and Adah looks on me. 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer, And thou? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when 1 hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, i 

Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? \ 

I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape, but will absorb | 

all things ' 

That bear the form of earth-born being. | 

Cain. Ah I 

I thought it was a being: who could do 
Such evil things to being save a being? 1 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call him 

Which name ihou wilt; He makes but to 
destroy. 

Cain, I knew not that, yet thougiitit, since 
I heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horril)le. I have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
By the far-flashing of tlie cherubs' swords, 



I watch'd for what I thought his coming; for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing 

came. 
And then I turn'dmy weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
Which are so beautiful: shall they, too, die? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both 
thine and thee. [them die — 

Cain. I'm glad of that: I would not have 
They are so lovely. What is death? I fear, 
I feel it is a dreadful thing; but what, 
I cannot compass: 'tis denounced against us, , 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an i 
What ill? [ill— 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth. 

That were no evil: would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust! 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish. 

Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd 
The life-tree? [he not 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error! 

Not to snatch first that fruit: — but ere he 

pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas, I scarcely now know what it is; 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what. 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear 
nothing: sec 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cai7i. Name it. 

L^ucifer. That 

Tliou dost fall down and worship me — thy 

Lord. [worships. 

Cain, Thou art not the Lord my father 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain. His equal? [with him! 

Lucifer. No: I have nought in common 
Nor would; 1 would be aught above — 

beneath — 
Aught save a sharer ox a servant of 
His power. I dwell aparl; but 1 am great: — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou among the first. 

Cain. I nevei 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice: — 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



Why should I bow to thee? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bowed 

To Him? 

Cain. Have I not said it?— need I say it? 

Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee 

that? [bow'd to me! 

Lucifer. He who bows not to Him has 

Cain, But I will bend to neither. i 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less, | 

Thou art my worshipper: not worshipping \ 
Him, makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that?, 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. \ 

Cain. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. \ 

Lucifer. Follow ^ | 

Where I lead thee. \ 

Cain. But I must retire 

To till the earth — for I had promised— — J 

Lucifer. WhatT 

Cai7t. To cull some first-fruits. | 

Lucifer. Why? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. i 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not | 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to Him who made thee?| 

Cain. Yes : — 

But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon 

me: [Adah 

The offering is more his than mine — and 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate? 

Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb : and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise; 

and 
Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks. 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me I 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 
It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labor'd not 
This morn; but I have done thy task: the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
Come away. 

Cain. Seest thou not? 

Adah. I see an angel: 

We have seen many: will he share our hour 
'Of rest? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others? 

But he is welcome, as they were: theydeign'd 
To be our guests — will he? 

CWw. [/^ Lucifer]. Wilt thou? 



501 
I ask 



Lucifer. 
Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah, And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah! 

Adah. Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer, No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the Serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah I — was not the 
Of knowledge? [tree that 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — 
so he lied not: 
And if he did betray yuu, 'twas with truth; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill: expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this 

spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too? 

Lucifer. No, not yet: 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer, Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh! my God! 

Shall they not love, and bring forth things 
that love [milk 

Out of their love? have they not drawn their 
Out of this bosom? was not he, their father. 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me? Did we not love each other? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them? — And as I love thee, my Cain! go not 
Forth with this spirit; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my mak- 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er [ing, 
It seems in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue? — if it doth, we are the slaves 



5o2 



CAIN, 



[ACT I. 



Of [and higher What must ;^(?^^ you cannot love when known? 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves: Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
Prefer an independency of torture That they are not compatible, the doom 

To the smooth agonies of adulation, ,Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 

In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since 

prayers, j there is 

To that which is omnipotent, because | No other choice: your sire hath chosen already; 

I His worship is but fear. 

I Adah. Oh, Cain! choose love. 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it 
Born with me — but I love nought else [was 

! Adah. Our parents? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd 
I from the tree 

'That which hath driven us all from Paradise? 
I Adah. We were not born then — and if we 



It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden? 

Adcih. Fiend! tempt me not with beauty; 
thou art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

bears 



Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not thC; had been, [Cain? 

Of good and evil? [knowledge Should we not love them and our children, 

Adah. Oh, my mother! thou i Cain. My little Enoch! and his lisping 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring sister? 

Than to thyself; thou at the least hast pass'd j Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

j Through thrice a thousand generations ! Never 
I Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
i Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

They pluck'd the tree of 
[sorrow, 



Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 

And happy intercourse with happy spirits: 

But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 

Art girt about by demons, who assume 

The words of God, and tempt us with our own j In the same hour! 

Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou { science 



Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'di And sin — and, not content with their own 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 
I cannot answer this immortal thing iAnd all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

W^hich stands before me; I cannot abhor him; [Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, To inherit agonies accumulated 

And yet I fly not from him; in his eye iBy ages! — and /must be sire of such things! 

There is a fastening attraction which Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 

Fixes my fluttering eyes on his; my heart 'The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
Beats quick; he awes me, and yet draws me All we love in our children and each other, 

near, j But lead them and ourselves through many 

Nearer and nearer: — Cain — Cain — save me! years 

from him! [spirit. Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Cain. What dreads my Adah? This is no ill Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

Adah. He is not God — nor God's: I have To Death — the unknown! Methinks the tree 
beheld j of knowledge 

The cherubs and the seraphs; he looks not JHath not fulfiU'd its promise — if they sinn'd, 
Like them. 1 At least they ought to have known all things 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — ' that are 

The archangels. Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the arch-! What do they know? — that they are miserable. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. [angels. ; What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 



Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know 77iost — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves 
not. 



Adah. I am not wretched, Cain; andifthou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 



Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge, Nor z^£7m/^ be happy; but with those around us 
quenches love, ^I think I could be so, despite of death, 



SCENE I.J 



CAIN, 



503 



Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer, And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou say'st, be happy? 

Adah. Alone! Oh, my God! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good? 
To me my solitude seems sin; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother. 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Lucifer, Yet thy God is alone; and is He 
Lonely, and good? [happy, 

Adah. He is not so; He hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy. 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy. 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh 
from Eden; 
Or of his first-bom son: ask your own heart; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah, Alas! no! and you — 

Are you of heaven? 

Lucifer, If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear. 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say; but it is worth the trial. 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah, It is a beautiful star; I love it for its 

Lucifer. And why not adore? [beauty. 

Adcih, Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer, But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God Himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen Him? 

Adah. Yes — in His works. 

Lucifer, But in His being? 

Adah, No — 

Save in my father, who is God*s own image; 
Or in His angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming; as the silent sunny noon, 
All light they look upon us; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 



With things that look as if they would be suns; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy; do not make us so. 
And I will vveep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas! those tears! 

Couldst thou but know what oceans will be 

Adah. By me? [shed 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. What all? 

Lucifer. The million millions-*- 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. [Hell, 

Adah, O Cain! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah, Whither? 

Lucifer. To a place 

W^7/^«ir6' he shall come back to thee in an hour: 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be? 

Lucifer, Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work. 
Show in an hour what He hath made in many, 
Or hath destroyed in few? 

Cain, Lead on. 

Adah. Will he, 

In sooth, return within an hour? 

Lxicifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and wc 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity; 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) shall come back 

to thee, 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou? 

Lucifer, Throughout all space. Where 
should I dwell? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — > 
These are my realms! So that I do divide 
Hisy and possess a kingdom which is not 
His, If I were not that which I have said. 



504 



CAIX. 



[act II. 



Coald I stand here? His angels are within ' 
Your vision. 

Adah, So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst; nor ask thee to i)artake of fruits 
Which shall deprive tliee of a single good 
The Conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cam. Spirit, I have said it. 

\Exeimt Lucifer and Cain. 

Adah [folloivs, cxclai7iiing\. Cain! my 
brother! Cain! 

ACT II. 
Scene I. — The Abyss of Space. 

Cai7i. I tread on air, and sink not; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cai7i. Can I do so without impiety? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not! doubt — 
and perish! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to His angels; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things. 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow 
senses, [deem 

Worship the word which strikes their ear, and! 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them ! 

In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, '* Believe in me, 
And walk the waters;" and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say. 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thoa dar'st not deny — the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou 
Is yon our earth? [art, 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 

I'he dust which formed your father? 

Cain. Can it be? 

Von small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, [night? 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly 
Is this our Paradise? W'here are its walls, 
And they who guard them? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 



Cain. How should I? As we move 
Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and 
And as it waxes little, and then less, [smaller, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise: 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them. 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far 

more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and 
What wouldst thou think? [wretched, 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 

Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd 

down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants. 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
I Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
I As frail, and few so happy — 
j Cai7t. Spirit! I 

I Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die: for to give birth to th^sje 
W^ho can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

L.ucifer, Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

L.ucifer. I am angelic: woi.ldst thou ])e 

as I am? [power, 

I Cai7i. I know not what thou arl : I see thy 

And see thou show'st me things beyond/;// 

i power, 



SCENE I.] 



CAIX. 



505 



Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful? 

Lucifer. I seem that which 1 am; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be. 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. [thee. 

. Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon 

Cain. How? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immortal? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, 
Is it not glorious? [behold! 

Cain, Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights! what are ye? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? 
Is your course measured for yc? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
Intoxicated with eternity? 
O God! O Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are! 
How beautiful ye are! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be! Let me die, as atoms die 
(If that they die), or know ye in your might 
And knowledge! My thoughts are not in this 

hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is. 
Spirit! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer? Look back 
to thine earth! [mass 

Cain. Where is it? I see nothing save a 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer, Vet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That! — yonder! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so? 

Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 



In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou has seen both worms and 

worlds, [of them? 

Each bright and sparkling — what dost think 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own 
sphere, [ful. 

And that the night, which makes both beauti- 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course. 
Must both be guided, 

Lucifer. But by whom or what? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold? As yet thou hast shown 
I dare not gaze on further. [nought 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or im- 
mortal? 

Cain. Why, what are things? 

Lucifer. Both partly ; but what doth 

Sit next thy heart? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer . But what 

Sate nearest it? 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor never shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which 
have died. 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then, on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh, how we cleave the blue! The 
stars fade from us! [on it, 

The earth! where is my earth? Let me look 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it: thou 
Shalt soon return to earth and all its dust: 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee! 

The phantasm of the world; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What! is it not then new? 

Lucifer. No more than life is; and that was 
ere thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either: many things will have 
No end; and some, which would pretend to 

have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise; for tnoments only and the space 



5o6 



CAIN. 



[act II. 



Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay: 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay; and such thou shalt 
behold. [survey. 

Cain. Clay, spirit! what thou wilt, I can 

Ltici/er. Away, then! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we ap- 

proach'd, 
And wore the looks of worlds. 

Lticifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay! and serpents too? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without 
them? must no reptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones? 

Cam. How the lights recede! 

Where fly we? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. [are gone! 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light! 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses: but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking 

shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which 

took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth: — instead. 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death and dead things? 

Cain. I seek it not : but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold. 

Cain. 'Tis darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever; but we will 
Unfold its gates! 

Cain. " Enormous vapors roll 

Apart — what's this? 

Lucifi-r. Enter! 

Cain. Can 1 i-cturn? 



Lucifer. Return! be sure: how else should 
death be peopled? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round 

Lucifer. Advance! [us. 

Cain. And thou! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! 

on ! [ They disappear through the clouds. 

Scene II. — Hades. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim 
worlds! [peopled 

For they seem more than one, and yet more 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which 
So thickly in the upper air, that I [swung 

Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable Heaven, 
Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near them I beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity [©n. 
Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell 
Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I hare heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
O God! I dare not think on't! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life. 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it- 
Even for the innocent! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cain, Cursed he not me in giving me my 
birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden? 

Luctfer. Thou say'st well: 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye? 
Live ye, or have ye lived? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death? 



SCENE II.j 



CAIN. 



507 



Lucifer, What? Hath not He who made ye 
Said 'tis another life? 

Cain. Till now He hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. . 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cain. Happy the day! 

Lucifer, Yes; happy! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only! [which I see 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms 
Ploating around me? — They wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's: 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something which, 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 1 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. [to be 

Lucifer. Of thine I grant thee — but too mean 
The last of these. 

Cain, And what are they? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shalt be. 

Cain. But what were they? 

Lucifer. Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty -thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to [judge 

Thee and thy son : — and how weak they are, 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me! and did they perish? 

Lucifer, Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt 
fade from thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs? 



Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now. 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall? 

Lucifer. Ask Him who fells. 

Cain, But how? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
Destruction and disorder of the elements. 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world: such things. 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful ! 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms! 
Material, as thou art. [they were once 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them? [that. 

Lucifer. Let Him who made thee answer 
I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blind- 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which [ness — 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till [ty. 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safe- 

Cain, No; I'll stay here. 

Lucifer. How long? 

Cain. Forever! Since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in 
shadows. 

Lucifer, It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou seest 

have pass'd — 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 

Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 



5o8 



CAIX. 



[act II. 



Cain, And these, too; can they ne'er repass It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
To earth again? At least \i proviised hiow ledge at the /rzV^ 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone forever — Of death — h^Xi k7ioxvledge still: hM\.\i\i2X knows 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not| man? [knowledge: 

Be conscious to a single present spot \ Lucifer. It maybe death leads to the //^^//t'j/ 

Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — j And being of all things the sole tiling certain. 



Oh, what a beautiful world it was 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful, untoiling. 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou seest. 
But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures. 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence [pass'd, 

(At least so seeming) to the things we have 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and terror; taller than 
The cherub -guarded walls of Eden, with [them. 
Eyes flashing like thefieiy swords which fence 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world: but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it? 

Lucifer. No: for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it use 
'Twould be destroy'd so early. [less — 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer, You have forgotten the denuncia- 
tion [all things, 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with 
And death to all things, and disease to most 
things, [fruits 
And pangs, and bitterness; these were the 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die? 

Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made 
for you, [doom 

As you for Him. — You would not have their 
Superior to your own? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 



At least leads to the jwr^'^/ science; therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer, Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lztcifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us. 
Which looks like water, and which I should 
The river which flows out of Paradise [deem 
I Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
I And boundless, and of ethereal hue — 
iWhat is it? 

j Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
I Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface? 

Lucifer. Are its inhabitants; 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and 
vasty [cedar 

Head ten times higher than the haughtiest 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden? 

* Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt 



Cain. Alas, the hopeless wretches! Had more of beauty. [the other 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 

sons, [pie;' Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so 

Like them, loo, without having shared the ap-' call'd), 

Like them, too, without the S(j dear-bought But ncvor that precisely which j)crsuaded 

knowledge ! The fatal fruit, nor even of the ^anie aspect. 



SCK\E II.] 



CAIN". 



509 



Lucifer. Your father saw him not? 

Cain. No; 'twas my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the ser-; 

pent. [thy sons' wives, 

Lucifer. Good man! whene'er thy wife, orj 

Tempt thee or them to aught that's new orj 

strange, [the7n. \ 

Be sure thou seest first who hath tempted 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late; there is 
For serpents to tempt woman to. [no more 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt 

man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to 
My counsel is a kind one: for 'tis even [it! 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
'Twill not be follow'd, so there's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

LAicifer. The happier thou! — 

Thy world and thou are still too young ! Thou 

thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy; is it 
Not so? 

Cain, For crime, I know not; but for pain 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil — 
Of sorrow — and thou sufferest — are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be; and that state again 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this? 

Lucifer, Was not thy quest for knowledge? 

Cain. Yes; as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain, Then my father's God did well 

When He prohibited the fatal tree, 

Lucifer. But had done better in not plant- 
ing it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cai7i. Not of all things. No: 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer, And who and wliat doth not? iVho 
covets evil 
For its own bitter sake? — A^otte — nothing! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. [beheld, 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we 
Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, 



Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come: they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar 

Cain. And what of that? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they 
When nearer, must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer, Approach the things of earth most 
And judge their beauty near. [beautiful, 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — 
What is that. 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote? 

Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of 
heaven. 
The deep blue moon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous com- 
His setting indescribable, which fills [ing — 
My eyes with pleasant tears, as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with 
Along that western paradise of clouds — [him 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 

voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 
And mingles with the song of cherubim. 
As the day closes over Eden's walls; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 
In the first dawn and bloom of young creation. 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents 
Can make its offspring; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother, 

Lucifer. Mortal! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no 

children. [with us. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful [for me. 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes. 
Why art thou wretched? 

Cain. Why do I exist? 

Why art thou wretched? why are all things so? 
Even He who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
And yet my sire says He's omnipotent: 
Then why is evil — He being good? I ask'd 
This question of my father; and he said. 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good that must arise from out 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 



5IO 



CAIN, 



f Aor n. 



And piteous blcatin;^ of its restless dam; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son! S'\id Adam, how from evil 
Springs good! 

Lucifet\ What didst thou answer? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father: but I thought, that 'twere 
A better porLiun for the animal 
Never to have been stung at ally than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer, But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain, Most assuredly: 

What should I be without her? 

Lucifer. What am I? 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love? 

Cain, All things, my father says; butlcon- 
I see it not in their allotment here. [fess 

Lucifer, And therefore thou canst not see 
if /love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like 

Cain, Snows! what are they? [snows. 

Lucifer^ Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspring must encounter; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no 
winter. [thyself? 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like 

Lucifer, And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain. Yes, but iove more 

What makes my feelings more endurable. 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beauti 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye; [ful, 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful I how can that 

Lucifer. With time. [be? 

Cain, But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair: 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 
In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
lie who creates all beauty will lose more 



Than me in seeing perish such a work, [perish. 

Lticifer. I pity thee, who lovest what must 

Caifi. And I thee, who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart? 

Cain. Why should he not? 

Lucifer, Thy father loves him well — so does 

Cain, And so do I. [thy God. 

Lucifer, 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly! 

Lucifer. lie is the second born of flesh. 

And is his mother's favorite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favor, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's? 

Cain. What is that 

To me? should I not love that which all love? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent 
Lord, 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw Him, and I know not if He smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen His angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer, But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother: 
His sacrifices are acceptable, 

Cain. So be they! wherefore speak to me of 
this? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this 
ere now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, why recall a thought that • 

\he pauses y as agitated^ — Spirit! 
Here we are in thy world: speak not o{ mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders: thou hast shown 

me those 
Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck; thou hast pointed 

out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life; thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence wit^ the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death; thou hast 

shown me much — 
But not all: show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In I^Iis especial Paradise — or thine : 
Where is it? 

Lucifer, Here^ and o'er all space. 

Cai7i. But ye 

Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their ten- 
All temporary breathing creatures their [ants; 
I Peculiar element; and things which hav« 



SCENE II.] 



CAIN, 



511 



Long ceased to breathe otir breath, have theirs, 

thou say'st; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together: but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain, Would there were only one of ye I 
Perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms, 
liow came ye, being spirits, wise andinf/nite, 
To separate? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brotht^r? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain: but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh? can it fall out? 
Infinity with Immortality? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what? 

Lucifer, To reign. 

Cain, Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal? 

Lucifer, Yea ! 

Cain, And what I have seen. 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain, And cannot ye both reigit, then? — is 
there not 
Enough? — why should ye differ? 

Lucifer, We both reign. 

Cain, But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which? 

Cain. Thou! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not? 

Lucifer. And why not He who made? / 
made ye not: 
Ye are His creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or His dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both; but the time will come thou shalt see 
Of them farevermore. [one 

Cain, And why not now? 

Lucifer, Thy human mind hath scarcely 
grasp to gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought; and thou wouldst go on 
aspiring [ciples! 

To the great double Mysteries! the i7U9 Prin- 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones! 
Dust! limit thy ambition; for to see 
5ither of these, would be for thee to perish! 

Cain, And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer, There 

The sun of her who snatch'd the apple spake! * 



But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death! 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy 
world. 
Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, 
and die. [things 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these 
Which thou hast shown me? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in Avhat I show'd. 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

C^in. Alas! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's noth- 
ingness: 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit! 

Thou speak'st it proudly; but thyself, though 
Hast a superior. [proud, 

Lticifer. No ! by heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with Him — 
I have a victor — true; but no superior. [No! 
Homage He has from all — but none from me: 
I battle it against Him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space, 
And the infinity of endless ages. 
All, all, will I dispute! And world by world. 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till He or I be quench'dl 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the ^^^^ He gives? 
Were I the victor. His works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce-born mortals, what have been His 
To you already, in your little world? [gifts 

Cain. But few, and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of His celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essencCp 
And not made good or evil by the giver; 
But if He gives you good — so call Him; U' 
Evil springs from Hiin^ do not name it mine* 



CAIN, 



[act hi. 



Till ye know better its true fount; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good giit has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason ; — let it not be over-sway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gaii.st all external sense and inward feeling: 
Think and endure — and form an inner world 



Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er 

them; 

Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must 

dream — 
Of what? Of Paradise! — Ay! dream of it. 
My disinherited boy! 'Tis but a dream; 
P'or never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 



In your own bosom — where the outward fails; Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy! 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual - - — 

Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[ They disappeaf . 

ACT IIL 

Scene I. — The Earth near Eden^ as in Act I. 

Enter Cain and Adah. 



Adah, Hush! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will; but wherefore? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou 
For our child's canopy? [ehoose it 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore 
Fitting to shadow slumber. [seem'd 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest; but no matter — lead me to him. 
\They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks. 
In their pure, incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

iiow beautifully parted! No; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake 

soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

Cain^ You have said well; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles and sleeps! — 

Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 



Adah. Dear Cain! Nay, do not whisper 
o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past: 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
Can we not make another? 

Caiii. Where? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art I feel not 
The want of this so much-regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother. 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the 
debts we owe her. [drew thee hence, 

Adah. Cain! that proud spirit, who with- 

Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had 

hoped [held, 

The promised wonders which thou hast be- 

Visions, thou say'st, of past and present 

worlds. 

Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge; but I see [him. 
Thy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon? 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two lo7ig hours 
To me^ but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, 

and seen [more 

Worlds which he once shone on, and never 

Shall light; and worlds he never lit: me- 

thought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind, then, hath capacity of time, 
kx\.d measures it by that which it beholds. 



Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and 

smile! [cheering] Pleasing or painful; little or almighty. 

Thine aie the hours and days when both are! I had beheld the immemorial works 
And innocent! thou has not pluck'd the' Of endless beings; skirr'dextinguish'd worlds; 

fruit — [the time! And, gazing on eternity, methought 

Thou know'st not thou art naked! Must' I had borrowed more by a few drops of ages | 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins un-'From its immensity; but now I feel ^ 

known, [sleep on! iMy littleness again. Well said the spirit, 

WTiich were not mine nor thine? But now That I was nothing! 

His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles,! Adah. Wherefore said he so i* 

And shining lids are trembling o'er his long Jehovah said not that. 



SCENE : 



CAIN. 



513 



Cain. 



With making us the nothing \v\\\(z\i we are; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what? 

Adah, Thou know'st- 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 



No; He contents Him [For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 



To us? they sinn'd, then let them die! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is The germs of an eternal misery 
that thought j To myriads are within him! Better 



Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I bean hypocrite, [should I 
And seem well pleased with pain? For what 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper 

[there, 
twere 



Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. ! I snatched him in his sleep, and dash'd him 
Would /could die for them, so they might live ! | 'gainst 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one j The rocks, than let him live to 



Might satiate the insatiable of life, [victim 

And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from 
him. [ment one day 

Adah. How know we that some such atone- 
May not redeem our race? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty? What atonement 
Were there? Why, w^ are innocent; what have 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed [we 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge? 

Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain: 
Sound impious in mine ears. [thy words'The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 

Caift. Then leave me! And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet 

Adah. Never, ; Enoch ! [She goes to the child. 

Though thy God left thee. O Cain! look on him; see how full of life, 

Cain. Say, what have we here?: Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 

Adah, Two altars, which our brother Abel, How like tome — how like tothee, when gentle, 
made For theft we are all alike: is't not so, Cain? 

During thine absence, whereupon to offer 1 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. [ready j Reflected in each other; as they are 

Cain. And how knew he that /would be so! In the clear waters, when they slvq gentle ^ and 
With the burnt-offerings, which he daily brings | When thou Sirt gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
With a meek brow, whose base humility I And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 

Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe ' Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms. 



Adah. Oh, my God! 

Touch not the child — my child! thy child! O 
Cain! [power 

Cain. Fear not! for all the stars, and all the 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon in- 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss, [fant 

Adah. Then why so awful in thy speech? 

Cain. I said, 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twere better that he never had been born. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so! Where were then 
the joys, 



To the Creator? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice; I have no 

off'ering. [beautiful 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early 

Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and 

fruits. 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 



And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
To hail his father; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy! 

If that a mortal's blessing may avail thee. 



Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten;To save thee from the serpent's curse! 
in the sun, j Adah. It shall. 

According to the curse: — must I do more? Surely a father's blessing may avert 
For what should I be gentle? for a war | A reptile's subtlety. 

With all the elements ere they will yield [ful?! Cain. ' Of that I doubt; 

The bread we eat? For what must I be grate- But bless him ne'ertheless. 

^3 



5^4 



CAIN, 



[act hi. 



Adah. 



Our brother comes. 



Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee! 

Cain. Abel, hail! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast 
been wandering, 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our 

Cai7i. No. [father? 

Abel. W^hy then commune with him? he 
A foe to the Most High. [may be 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term 
Him? 

AbeL Ter7n Him I — your words are strange 
to-day, my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
W^e mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness! 

\^Exit Adah, with her child. 

Abel. W'here hast thou been? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen? 

Cai7i. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud- 
voiced spheres, 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse: leave me, AbeL 

Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural 

light,— 

Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue, — 

Thy words are fraught with an unnatural 

What may this mean? [sound: — 

Caiii. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed 
together. 

Cain. Abel, 1 pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that. 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
Revere llim, then — but let it be alone — 
At least without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not, 



And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 
To do so now: thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm I say I ? 

Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose, [me! 

Abel. Neither: we must perform our task 
Spurn me not. [together. 

Cain. If it must be so well, then, 

What shall I do? 

AbeL Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me: they to me are so 
And stone. [much turf 

AbeL Choose thou! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'Tis the highest. 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine? 

AbeL Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble off"ering. 

Cain. I have no flocks; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit: 

\He gathers fruits . 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripe- 
ness. 

\They dress their altars and kindle a 
Jiame upon thefn. 

AbeL My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this; lead thou 
And I will follow — as I may. [the way, 

Abel [^hneeling]. O God! 

Who made us, and whobreathed the breath of 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, [life 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been. 
Had not Thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is Thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes: Sole Lord 
Of good, and glory, and eternity; [of light! 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of Thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shephen 



ht! 
m J 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN. 



515 



First of the first-born flocks — an offering — 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto Thee? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of Thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 
Of Thee, and of Thy name, forevermore! 
Cain [standing erect during this speech^. 
Spirit! whate'er or whosoe'er Thou art. 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, I 

Shown in the exemption of Thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth! and God in heaven! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many as Thy works: — 
If Thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
Take them! If Thou must be induced with 

altars. 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto Thee. 
If Thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, 

which smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for Thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to Thy skies; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth. 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on now ofters in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to Thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of Thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favor. 
Look on It! And for him who dresseth it. 
He is — such as Thou mad'st him; and seeks- 

nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil, 
Strike him! Thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 
For what can he oppose? If he be good, 
Strike him, or spare him, as Thou wilt! since all 
Rests upon Thee, and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in Thy will; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not. 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate; which thus far I have endured. 
[The fire upon the altar (t/ Abel kindles 
into a column of the brightest fia^ne^ and 
ascends to heaven; while a whirlwind 
throws down the altar of Cain, and 
scatters the fruits abroad upon the earths 
Abel [kneeling^. Oh, brother, pray! Jeho- 
vah's wroth with thee. 
Cain. Why so? 

AbeL Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 
Cain. From earth they came, to earth let 
them return : 



Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the 

summer; 
Thy burnt flesh -offering prospers better; see 
How heaven licks up the flames, when thick 
with bloodl 

Abel. Think not upon my offering's accept- 
But make another of thine own before [ance, 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 
Nor suffer any 

Abel[rising'\. Cain! what meanest thou? 

Cain. To cast down yon vile flatterer of the 
clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids. 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 

Abel [opposing him]. Thou shalt not! — add 
not impious works to impious 
Words! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In His acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His! 

His pleasure ! what was His high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking 

blood. 
To the pain of the. bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the 

pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife? give way! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun to shame creation! 

Abel. Brother, give back! thou shalt not 
touch my altar 
With violence: if that thou wilt adopt it 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou? 

Cain. Give — 

Give way! — thy God loves blood! — then look 
Give way, ere he hath more! [to it: — 

Abel. In His greo-i name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had His acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself. 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil: — else 

Abel [opposing him], I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain [striking him with a brand on the 
temples y which he snatches fro7n the altar \. 
Then take thy life unto thy God, 
Since He loves lives. [brother? 

Abel [falls]. What hast thou done, my 

Cain. Brother! 

Abel. O God! receive Thy servant, and 
Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 



5i6 



CALV. 



[act mi. 



He Jill — Cain, give me — give me thy hand;; 

Poor Zillah [and telli 

Cat}i [^{//f-r a 1)1 07)1 etiVs siiipcfactioit\. My^ 

hand! 'tis all red, and with 

\Vhat? \AlongpLUtsc.- — Looking slowly round. 
Where ami? alonel Where's Abel? where 
Cain? Can it be that I am he? My brother. 
Awake I — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber: — why so pale? 

What, hast thou! thou wert full of life this 

morn! 
Abel! I pray thee, mock me not! I smote 
Toe fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
W^ouldst thou oppose me? This is mockery, 
And only done to daunt me: — 'twas a blow, — 
And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir! 
W'hy, so — that's well! — thou breath'st! breathe 

upon me! 
O God! O God! [God? 

Abel [very faintly'] . W^hat's he who speaks of 
Cain. Thy murderer. 

Adel. Then may God forgive him! Cain, 
Comfort poor Zillah; she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dies, 

Caiti. And I none! — Who makes me bro- 
therless? 
His eyes are open! then he is not dead! 
Death is like sleep; and sleep shuts down 

our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart; why, then, he breathes! 
And yet I feel it not. His heart! — his heart! 

Let me see, doth it beat? methinks No! — 

This is a vision, else I am become [no! 

The native of another and worse world, [wet ; 
The earth swims round me; what is this? — 'tis 
[P21IS his hand to his Orow, aftdthen looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews! 'Tis blood — my 

blood — 
My brother's and my own; and shed by me! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since 1 have taken life from my own flesh? 
But he cannot be dead! — Is silence death? 
No; he will wake: then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly! — He hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him? — My brother! — No: 
He will not answer to that name; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me ! 
Oh for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 
Enter Zillah. 
Zillah, I heard a heavy sound; what can 
it be? 
'Tis Cain; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep? Oh, 
heaven! [No, no! 

What means this paleness, and yon stream? — 



It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel! what's this? — who hath done this? He 

moves not; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop dowm from 

mine 
With stony lifelessness! Ah! cruel Cain! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have 

stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah! — come hither! Death is in the world! 
\Exit Zillah, calling on her parents, etc. 
Cain \soh{sy And who hath brought him 

there? — I — who abhor [thought 

The name of Death so deeply, that the 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and given 
My brother to his cold and still embrace. 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Hadmadden'd me; — but he shall ne'er awake. 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings 
me here. — 
What do I see? — Tis true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine! 

[ To Eve. 

Eve. Oh! speak not of it now: the serpent's 
fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel! 
Jehovah! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to lake hif?i from me! 

Adam. Who 

Or what hath done this deed? — Speak, Cain, 

since thou 
W^eit present; wasitsome more hostile angel. 
Who walks not with Jehovah? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah! a livid light 

Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud! Yon 

brand, 
Massy and bloody, snatch'd from off the altar. 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son-' 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are. 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain! and say it was not Mf?//.' 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eyes with hands j 

Incarnadine, m 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — -^ 

Cain! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 



SCENE I.] 



CAIN, 



sn 



Eve. Hear, Jehovah Ii Adah, Oh, part not with him thus, my fath- 

May the eternal serpent's curse be on him! er: do not 

For he was fitter for his seed than ours. Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head! 

May all his days be desolate! May Adam. I curse him not; his spirit be his 

Adah, . Hold! I Come, Zillah! [curse. 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — j Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother,! ^</flw. We will return again, when he is gone 
And my betroth'd. I Who hath provided for us this dread office. 

Eve, He hath left thee no brother — Come, Zillah! 
Zillah no husband — me no so?t ! — for thus Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

I curse him from my sight forevermore! And those lips once so warm — my heart! my 

All bonds I break between us, as he broke heart! 

That of his nature, in yon O death ! death ! l^xeuni Adam and Zillah weeping. 



Why didst thou not take me, who first incuiT'd 
Why dost thou not so now? [thee? 

Adafu. Eve! let not this. 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to His holy will. | 

Eve. \J)ointing to CAi:>i]. His will /the will 

of yon incarnate spirit | 

Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 



Adah. Cain! thou hast heard, we must go 
forth. I am ready. 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
I And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
, Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
i Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
I To me — tJiine ow7i. 

Cain. Leave me! 

Adah, Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost 
thou not fear 



To strew It with the dead. May all the curses , t, , n •,, i. u ^i, j ^.i,- -. 

r\c^'r 1 1 • I J I,- • ' lo dwell with one who hath done this? 

Of hie be on him! and his agonies i j/ / T f • 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I [erless. 



Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his 

path — [leaves! 

Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the| 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions! May his dreams be of his 

victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of death! 



Shrink from the deed which leaves thee broth 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain! Cain! 

Adah. Hear'st thou that voice? 

The Voice within. Cain! Cain! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone 
Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel? 

Cain, Am I then 



May the clear rivers turn to blood, as he 

Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip! My brother's keeper? 

May every element shun or change to him! Angel. Cain! what hast thou done? 

May he live in the pangs which others die with! The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries 

And death itself wax something worse than out, [art thou 

death Even from the ground, unto the Lord! — Now 

To him who first acquainted him with man! Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her 
Hence, fratricide! henceforth that word is mouth [hand. 

Cain, ^ To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash 

Through all the coming myriads of mankind. Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert. their! shall not 

sire! i Yield thee her strength: a fugitive shalt thou 

May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods | Be from this day, and vagabond on earth! 
Deny thee shelter! earth a home! the dust 1 Adah. This punishment is more than he can 
A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her' bear. [earth, 

God! [^j;z/ Eve. Behold, thou driv'st him from the face of 

Adam. Cain! get thee forth: we dwell no And from the face of God shall he be hid 

more together. A fugitive and vagabond on earth. 

Depart! and leave the dead to me — I am 'Twill come tc pasSj that whoso findeth him 

Henceforth alcne — we nevet must meet more. Shall slay him. 



5i8 



CAIN. 



[ACT III. 



Cain. Would they could I but who are they 
Shall slay me? Where are these on the lone 

earth 
As yet unpeopled? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son? 

Adah. Angel of Light! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father, [eris. 

AngcL Then he would but be what his fath- 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now seest so besmear'd with 
blood? [cides. — 

The fratricide might well engender parri-| 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God | 

And mine commandeth me to set His seal \ 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. \ 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither! 

Cain. What 

Wouldst thou with me? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

Cain. No, let me die! 

Ayigel. It must not be. 

\The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 

Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more? let me meet it as I may. 

Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn 
from the womb. 
As the ground thou must henceforth till; but he 
Thou slewest was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten; 
Ere yet my mother s mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so? Let him return to-day. 
And I lie ghastly! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him He loved; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done 
is done; 
Go forth! fulfil thy days! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last! \The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah! little knows he what he weeps for! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears! 
But the four rivei-s would not cleanse my soul.* 



Think'stthou my boy will bear to look on iiie? 
Adah. If I thought that he would not, I 

would — 

Cain, [interrupting ker\. No, 

No more of threats : we have had too many of 

Go to our children; I will follow thee, [them: 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the 

Let us depart together. [dead; 

Cain. Oh! thou dead 

And everlasting witness! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou 

now art 
I know not; but U thou seest what /am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made 

thee. [drain'd 

I, who sprang from the same womb with thee. 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own. 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee which thou shouldst have 

done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality, [earth! 
But who hath dug that grave? Oh, earth! Oh, 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness! 
[Adah stoops down and kisses the body (t/Abel. 
Adah. A dreary and an early doom, my 

brother, 
Has been thy lot! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is [them; 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
! Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our 

way : 
j'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
I Adah. Lead! thou shalt be my guide, and 
I may our God 

\ Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

Cain. And he wholieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
Which might have graced his recent mairiage 

couch, [mine, A 

And might have temper'd this stern blood of x 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring! 
O Abel! 

Adah. Peace be with him! 
Cain. But with niel^ 

[Exeunt. 



*■ Pibon, Gihon, Hiddekcl, and Euphrates. — Gen. ii. and consequently the only waters with which Cain was 
11-14. The "four rivers" which flowed round Eden, acquainted upon earth. 



I 



HEAVEN AND EARTH 



A MYSTERY. 
1821. 

FOUNDED^ ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VL : ** AND IT CAME TO 

PASS . . . THAT THE SONS OF GOD SAW THE DAUGHTERS OF MEN THAT THEY 

WERE FAIR; AND THEY TOOK THEM WIVES OF ALL WHICH THEY CHOSE." 

"And woman wailing for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 



ANGELS. 

Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael, the Archangel. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Noah and his Sons. 

Irad. 

Japhet. 



women. 

An ah. 
Aholibamah. 



Chorus of Spirits of the Earth, — Chorus of Mortals. 



PART I. 

Scene l.—A woody and mountainous district 

near Mount Ararat. — Time^ Midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps; it is the hour when 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend [they 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat: — 
How my heart beats! 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. 

Anah. My sister, though 

I love Azaziel more than oh, too much! 

What was I going to say? my heart grows 
impious. 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me: 
This cannot be of good; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin! 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee 
Marry, and bring forth dust! [long: 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal; yet 
I am glad he is not, 1 cannot outlive him. 



And when I think that his immortal wings 

Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 

Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 

As he adores the Highest, death becomes 

Less terrible; but yet I pity him: 

His grief will be of ages, or at least 

Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph. 

And he the perishable. 

Aho, Rather say, 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah, 
Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved 
him. 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 

Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation! — 'Tis the hour. 
Anah. Seraph! 

From thy sphere! 
Whatever star contain thy glory; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with ** the seven,"* 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear! 
Oh! think of her who holds thee dear! 

And though she nothing is to thee. 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 



* The archangels, said to be seven in number, and to 
occupy the eighth rank in the celestial Hierarchy. 



520 



HEAVE X AND EARTH. 



1821. 



The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thine years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes; 
With me thou canst not sympathize, 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate; 
Vet, Seraph dear! 
Oh hear! 
For thou hast loved me, and 1 would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forgett'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep from 
o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art! 

Great is their love who love in sin and fear; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy: to an Adamite [appear, 
Forgive, my Seraph! that such thoughts 
For sorrow is our element; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, [blent. 

Though sometimes with our visions 
The hour is near [quite. — 

Which tells me we are not abandon'd 
Appear! Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here. 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — [dare 
Or warring with the spirits who may 
Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
abyss. 
Whose tenants dying, while their world is 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this; [falling. 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not: 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move 
Descend and share my lot! [thee, 

Though I be form'd of clay. 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 

On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality cannot repay 
With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 



In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long: death and decay 
! Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it: though this life must pass away, 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part? 
Thou art immortal — so am I: I feel — 
! I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
I All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 
I Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this truth — ** Thou liv'st forever !" 
But if it be in joy 
I know not, nor would know; 
I That secret rests with the Almighty giver. 
Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and 
woe. 

But thee and me he never can destroy; 
Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm; we 
Of as eternal essence, and must war [are 
With him if he will w^ar with us: with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal 
sorrow ; 
For thou hast ventured to share life with vie^ 
And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 
No! though the serpent's sting should 
pierce me thorough. 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Around me still! and I will smile, 
And curse thee not; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend, and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
Morejoy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Anah. Sister! sister! I view them ^\inging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from off their pinions fling- 
As though they bore to-morrow's light, [ing, 
Anah. But if our father see the sight! 
Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come! he comes! — Azaziel! 
Aho. Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there. 
To Samiasa's breast! 

Anah. Lo! they have kindled all the west. 
Like a returning sunset; — lo! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-color'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path. 
Now shines! and now, behold! it hath 
Retarn'd to night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan hath lar.hM 
From hie unfathomable home, 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 



l82I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



521 



Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains 
sleep. 
Aho. They have touch'd earth! Samiasa! 
Anah, MyAzaziel! 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE II. 
Enter Irad a7id Japhet. 

Irad. Despond not; wherefore wilt thou 
wander thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night. 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars? 
They cannot aid thee. 

Japh. But they soothe me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me 

Japh. I feel for thee too. [also. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn; 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow. 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her better. 
Had love been met with love : as 'tis, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah! 

Irad. No; her sister. 

Japh. What other? 

Irad. That I know not; but her air. 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

yaph. Ay, but not Anah: she but loves her 
God. 

bad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee 
What can it profit thee? [uot, ^ 

Japh. True, nothing; buti 

I love. 

Irad. And so did I. I 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not, j 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me! why? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy dis- 
temper, 



And would not feel as thou dost for more 
shekels [weigh'd 

Than all our father's herds would bring, if 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us. 
As if such useless and discolor'd trash. 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon— 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then? 

Japh. No, Irad; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What wouldst thou there? 

Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad: it is a hopeless spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 'tis dangerous; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with 
I must go with thee. [terrors. 

Japh. Irad, no; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them: turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad; 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. \solus\. Peace! I have sought it where 
it should be found, 
In love — with love,too,which perhaps deserved 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart, [it; 
A weakness of the spirit, — listless days, 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace! what peace? the 
Of desolation, and the stillness of [calm 

The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state [boughs; 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown 

wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah! [wide 
When the dread hour denounced shall open 
The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements; this bosom, which in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat moW 
vainly, 



S22 



HEAVEX AND EARTH. 



1821. 



While thine Oh, God! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath! for she is pure amidst the failing 
As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 
Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
How would I have adored thee, but thou 

wouldst not; 
And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 
Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

\^Exit Japhet. 
Enter Noah and Shem. 

N'oah. Where is thy brother Japhet? 

Skem, He went forth. 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers 

nightly. 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
W'hich opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there: he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him. 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days. 
And that the hourapproacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings! Lead the way; 
He must be sought for! 

Shem. Go not forward, father: 

I will seek Japhet. , 

Noah, Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah. — Let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters? 

Noah, No; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
\Exeunt Noah and Shem. 
SCENE III. 
The mountains, — A caver 71, and the rocks oj 
Caucasus. 

Japh. \solus^. Ye wilds, that look eternal; 

and thou cave. 
Which seem'st unfathomable; and ye moun- 
So varied and so terrible in beauty; [tains. 

Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks [stone 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — 
Ye look eternal! Yet, in a few days, [yes. 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, 

hurl'd 
Before the mass uf wateic, and yon cave, 



Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
Shall have its depths search'dby the sweeping 
! And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ': [wave, 
I And man — Oh, men! my fellow -beings! Who 
Shall weep above your universal grave, 
Save I? Who shall be left to weep? My kins- 
jAlas! what am I better than ye are, [men, 
That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be 
The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
While I had hope? or the more savage haunts, 
Scarce less beloved, where I despair'dfor her? 
And can it be! — Shall yon exulting peak, 
Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 
Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep? 
No more to have the morning sun break forth, 
And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
From its tremendous brow? no more to have 
Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even. 
Leaving it with a crown of many hues? 
No more to be the beacon of the world, 
For angels to alight on, as the spot \vtore " 
Nearest the stars? And can those words ^^ no 
Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 
And the predestined creeping things reserved 
By my sire to Jehovah's bidding? May 
He preserve them, and / not have the power 
To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters 

from [mate, 

A doom which even some serpent, with his 
Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd. 
To hiss and sting through some emerging 

world, [ooze 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose 
Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
The salt morass subside into a sphere 
Beneath the sun, and be the monument. 
The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
Of yet quick myriads of all life? How much 
Breath will be still'd at once! All-beauteous 

world! 
!So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
With a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 
And night by night, thy number'd days and 

nights. 
I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
Whose love had made me love thee more; but 
A portion of thy dust, I cannot think [as 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
Such as — Oh God! and canst thou — 

\He pauses. 
\A rushing sound from the cavern is heard y 

and shouts of laughter — afterwards a 

Spirit passes. 
Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou? 

Spirit \laughs\. Ha! ha! ha! 

JeLph, By all that earth holds holiest, speak! 



l82I.. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



523 



Spirit \laughs\ Ha! halj 

Japh. By the approaching deluge! by the' 
earth 1 

Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by : 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! | 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to| 
seas, I 

And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes!' 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, I 

Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to itie! i 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh? | 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit, Ha! ha! ha! 

[Spirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a 
The coming desolation of an orb, [world, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life! 
How the earth sleeps! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! [here. 
Why should they wake to meet it? What are 
Which look like death in life, and speak like 
things [clouds! 

Born ere this dying world? They come like 
[ Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice! 

The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden theirhigh place, 
But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow. 
Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sap- 
ping motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behdld their last to-morrow! 
Earth shall be ocean! 
And no breath. 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings,but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save. 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide [died, 
For the expected ebb which cometh not: 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain ; 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 



And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home? 
Japh. [coming forward.'] My sire! 
Earth's seed shall not expire; 
Only the evil shall be put away 
From day. 
Avaunt! ye exulting demons of the waste! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not de- 
Hence! haste! [stroy; 

Back to your inner caves! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place. 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds. 
In restless wretchedness along all space! 
Spirit. Son of the saved! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy? — No! 
The new world and new race shall be of 
woe — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride. 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named. 
Without such grief and courage, as should 
rather 
Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favor'd father. 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's 
grave? 

Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind? 
Mine 
Hateth thine 
As of a different order in the sphere. 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here. 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 

Above what they have done. 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one! 

Thyself for being his «on ! 



5^ 



HI^AVEX AXD EARTH. 



1821 



Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
Rejoice! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer: 
No more 
Shall they adore; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour, 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 



The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 

Shall be amongst your race in different forms,- 

But the same moral storms 

Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 

i In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 
Brethren, rejoice! 
Mortal, farewell! 
Hark! hark! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell; 
The winds, too, plume their piercing wings; ; 
The clouds have nearly lilPd their springs; ; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 
And heaven set wide her windows ;f while, 
mankind [ken- 



In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where, ^'^^^^» unacknowledged, each tremendous to 



The deep shall follow to their latest lair; 
Where even the brutes, in their despair. 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb,as though he were his brother; 
Till all things shall be as they were. 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky; 

While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation. 
To generate new nations for his use; 
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime. 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to Time 
New beings — years,diseases,sorrow,crime — 
Will all companienship of hate and toil, 

Until 

Japh. {interrupting him. \ The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil; and redeem 
Unto himself all times, all things; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 

Her Eden in an endless paradise, [fell, 

Where man no more can fall as once he 

And even the very demons shall do well ! 

Spirits. And when shall take effect this 

wondrous spell? 

Japh. When the Redeemer cometh; first in 

And then in glory. [pain, 

Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mor- 

Till earth wax hoary: [tal chain, 

War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in 

Until the clo'j'Is look gory [vain, 

With the blood rcckinji fruh: 



Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hear. 
The mustering thunders of the threatening, 
sphere; 
Yet a few hours their coming isdelay'd; . 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high, . 

Yet undisplay'd. 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 
Howl! howl: oh Earth! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth; 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 
The ocean's overflow! [shells,, 

jThe wave shall break upon your cliffs; and i 

The little shells, of ocean's least things, be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring 
dwells — [sea ! 

How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad 
wings. 
The wings which could not save: — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole 
space brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 

All die. 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future Sorrow's sake from* death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters; 



♦" And there were giants in the earth in those days, 

- - . and after, mighty men, which were of old, men of re- 

_ L each battle plain ; i nown.'* — Genesis. 

New timob, new clime?; new arts, new men* - "tXhcsamc day were all the fountains of the great 

bllt ball • i^^^P hroken up, and the windows of heaven were 

» opened."— /<^V. 



l82I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



52i 



Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 

Which would not spare 

Beings even in death so fair. 
'. It is decreed, 

All die! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 

Fly, brethren, fly! 

But still rejoice! 
We fell! 
They fall! 
I So perish all [hell ! 

iThese petty foes of Heaven who shrink from 
\The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards. 
Japh. \solus\. God hath proclaim'd the des- 
^ tiny of earth; 

My father*s ark of safety hath announced it; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves: 
The scroll of Enoch prophesied it long* I 

In silent books, which, in their silence, say | 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear: 
And yet men iisten'd not, nor listen ; but [nigh, 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so \^ 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, | 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty I 
purpose, i 

Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when [forth 
God said unto him, << Shine!" and he broke 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused! 
Before the human orison the earlier I 

Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, | 
Which in the open firmament of heaven i 

Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites: 
Their matins now draw nigh— the east is kind- 
ling — [near. 
And they will sing! and day will break! Both 
So near the awful close! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows — 
Ay, day will rise; but upon what? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day; and which, renew'd, 

makes time 
Nothing! for, without life, what are the hours? 
No more to dust than is eternity * 

Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void: without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with m an, and is swallow'd in that deep 



*The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, 
is said by them to be anterior to the flood. 



Which has no fountain; as his race will be 
Devoured by that which drowns his infant 

world. — 
What have we here? Shapes of both earth and 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful, [air? 
I cannot trace their features, but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the grey mountain, scattering its mist! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
For which I have so often pray'd — They come! 
Anah! oh, God! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah and 
Aholibamah. 

Anah. Japhet! 

Sam. Lo ! 

A son of Adam ! 

Aza, What doth the earth-born here. 

While all his race are slumbering? 

yaph. Angel! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on 

high? [that a part 

Aza. Know'st thou not, or forgett'st thou. 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth? 

yaph. But all good angels have forsaken 
earth. 
Which is condemn'd; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah! Anah! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be, beloved! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those 

hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, 
Forgive me [yet 

yaph. May the Heaven, which soon no more 
Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of 
We know thee not. [Noah ! 

yaph. The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever 
been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts. 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with 

wrath. 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong? [but thou 

yaph. Wrong! the greatest of all wrongs; 
Say'st well; though she be dust, I did not, 

could not. 
Deserve her. P'arewell, Anah! I have said 
That word so often! but now say it, ne'er 



526 



HEAVEX AXD EARTH. 



1821. 



To be repeated. Angel! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain? 

Aza. From what? 

Japh. And is it so, 

That ye too know not? Angels! angels! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now 

must 
Partake his punishment; or, at the least. 
My sorrow. 

Satn, Sorrow! I ne*er thought till now 
To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh, And hath not the Most High expound- 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost, [ed them? 

Aho. So be it! 

If they love as they are loved, they Avill not 

shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa! 

Anah. Sister! sister! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah? 

Anah. Yes, for thee: 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for ///w, then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me! That is nothing, if thou has not 
Left thy God too! for unions like to these. 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die; and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest: but if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah! he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us! and those who are with 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I [us! 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear; 
I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, i 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she,' 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we. 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's blood 

Warm in our veins, — strong Cain! who was 

begotten [dren? 

In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's chil- 



jSeth, the last oflfspring of old Adam's dotage? 
jNo, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
iOur race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 
I Japh. I did not speakto thee, Aholibamah! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou 
vauntest [springs 

Has come down in that haughty blood which 
From him who shed the first, and that a 

brother's! 
But thou, my Anah! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not, 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My 
Anah! [Abel 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. [interrupting hijn]. And wouldst thou 
have her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul? If/ partook thy thought, 
And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah; thou makest 
strife. 

yaph. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth: and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him? 

yaph. Thou speakest well: his God hath 
judged him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our fathers' father; 
The eldest bornof man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring: — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being? Look upon 
Our race; behold their stature and their beauty, 
Their courage, strength, and length of days 

yaph. They are number'd. 

Aho. Be it so! but while yet their hours en- 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers, [dure, 

yaph. My sire and race but glory in their 
Anah! and thou? [God, 

Atiah, Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
Of universal vengeance (if such should be). 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister! oh, my sister! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, w ithout the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the 
Making my dim existence radiant with [stars. 



l82I. 



HE AVE X AND EARTH. 



s^r 



Soft lights which were not mine? Aholibamah ! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it: 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

A/io. What, hath this dreamer, with his 
father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
Shaken my sister? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm 

earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eterna,! way? 
Who shall do this? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Alio. Who /^^«r^ that word? 

Japh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah! smilest thou still in scorn? 
Turn to thy seraphs: if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God! 

Aho, I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine: a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas! what else is love but sorrow? 
Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho, 'Tis said so, 

7<^tph. It is even so. 



Enter Noah and Shem. 

^'^^^- . Japhet! what 

Dost thou here with these children of the 
wicked? [doom? 

Dread'st thou not to partake their coming 
_ y^///. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earth-born being; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

^'oah. These are they, then. 

Who leave the throne ©f God, to take them 

wives 
From out the race of Cain; the sons of heaven. 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty? 

^^'^^ Patriarch! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such communion! 
Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind? 



His love unto created love? 

^ Noah, I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 

Far less the sons of God; but as our God 

Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 

^/.r judgments, I reply, that the descent 

Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 

Unto a perishable and perishing, 

Even on the very eve oi perishing, world 

Cannot be good. 

Aza, What! though it were to save? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 

What He who made you glorious hath con- 

demn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh, Oh, father! say it not. 

^'oah. Son! son? 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist: they soon shall cease to be. 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world. 
And better. 

Japh, Let me die with this, and iheml 
Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, buC 
Who can, redeems thee. [shalt not; he 

Sa7n, And why him and thee^ 

More than, what he, thy son, prefers to both: 
Noah. Ask Him who made thee greate.t 
than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears! 

Enter Raphael, the Archangel. 

Raph, Spirits! 

Whose seat is near the throne. 
What do ye here? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn, 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven 
Your place is heaven. 
Sam, Raphael! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
How long hath this been law. 
That earth by angels must be left untrod? 

Earth! which oft saw 
j Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod! 
I The world he loved, and made 



Sam, Was not man made in high Jehovah's! For love; and oft have we obey'd 

image? [what; His frequent mission with delighted pinions: 

made? And| Adoring him in his least works display'd; 

I Watching this youngest star of his dominions; 



Did God not love what he had 
Do we but imitate and emulate 



528 



HE A VEX AX/) EARTH. 



1821. 



And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 

^Vhy is thy brow severe? [near? 
And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction 

Raph. Had Samiasa and Azazicl been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of mc: 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd. 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid: 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence! away! away! 
Or stay, 
And lose eternity by that delay! 
Aza. And thou! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 

In being here? [sphere, 

Raph. I eame to call ye back to your fit 

In the great name and at the word of God. 

Dear,dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do: till now we trod 

Together the eternal space; together [die! 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must 

Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 

And much which she inherits: but oh! why 

Cannot this earth be made, or bedestroyM, 

Without involving ever some vast void 

In the immortal ranks? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell; his burning will 
Rather than longer worship dared endure! 
But ye who still are pure! 
Seraphs! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late? 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star. 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
I loved him — beautiful he was: oh, heaven! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what 

power 
W^as ever like to Satan's! Wquld the hour 



In which he fell could ever be forgiven! 
The wish is impious: but, oh ye! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice: 
He hath not tempted you; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt: 

But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust: but she will 
draw [law. 

A second host from heaven, to break heav'n's 
Yet, yet, oh fly! 
Ye cannot die; 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality [<Jay. 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
In all but suffering! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with 
cares. 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil, their path 
Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's 
wrath. 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 
Aho. Let them fly! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die, 
Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While ftom below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
/or the remission of one hour of woe, 
Let us resign even what we have adored. 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the 
If not unmoved, yet undismay'd, [sword, 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd. 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs! to your own eternal shore, 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
! Our portion is to die, 

I And yours to live forever: 

j But which is best, a dead eternity, 
I Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 



l82l. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



529 



Obey him, as we shall obey; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on 
Samiasa! * [high, 

And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep,— 
Farewell! Now rise, inexorable deep! 
Anah. And must we die? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel? 
Oh, my heart! my heart! 

Thy prophecies were true! 
And yet thou wert so happy too! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new : 
But yet depart! 
Ah! why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race! 
Our doom is sorrow: not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been 
From his once archangelic throne [hurl'd 
Into some unknown world: 
And thou, Azaziel! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer woe 
Forme. Away! nor weep! 
Thou canst not weep; but yet 
May'st suffer more, not weeping; then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly I fly! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
Japh. Oh, say not so! 

Father! and thou, archangel, thou! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 

That pure severe serenity of brow; 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore. 

Save in our ark, or let me be no more! 

N'oah, Peace, child of passion, peace! 

If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful m silence! cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for 
Such would it be [thee? 

To alter his intent 



For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear,and can. 
Japh. Ay, father! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast, [mand? 
Who,who,our tears, our shrieks, shall then corn- 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh, God! be thou a God, and spare 

Yet while 'tis time! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 
Mankind were then but twain. 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 
And the tremendous rain, [their graves. 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
N'oah. Silence, vain boy! each word of 
thine's a crime. 
Angel! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
Raph. Seraphs! these mortals speak in pas- 
sion: Ye! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure. 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be: 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Raph, Say'st thou? 

Aza. He hath said it, and I say, Amen! 

Raph. Again ! 
Then from this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power. 
And aliens from your God, 

Farewell! 
Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell? 

Hark, hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom: 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 
Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blos- 
som: 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
Yet dared to soar. 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to 
brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 

And then, no more! 
Japh. The sun! the sun! 

Heriseth, but his better light is gone; 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, [shone! 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath 
j The clouds return into the hues of night, 

^ Save where their brazen-color'd edges sircak 
34 



S30 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



1821. 



The verge where brighter morns were wont to 
Noah. Andlo! yon flash of light, [break. 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears! 

It Cometh! hence away! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides ! 
Japh. Oh, father, stay! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides. 
Noah. Must we not leave all life to such? 
Japh. Not L [Begone! 

Noah. Then die 

With them! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath ! [path? 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same 
Noah. Blasphemer! darest thou murmur 
even now! [brow; 

Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink: 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
With sobs the salt foam of the swelling 
waters : 
But he, when passion passeth, good as thou. 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's 

daughters. 

Aho. The tempest cometh; heaven and earth 
For the annihilation of all life. [unite 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might 
Sa7n. But ours is with thee: we willbearye 
To some untroubled star, [far 

W^here thou and Anah shall partake our lot: 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 

Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth. 
And mountains, land and woods ! when ye are 
Who shall dry up my tears? [not, 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not; though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 
Raph. Rebel! thy words are wicked as thy 
deeds [sword. 

Shall henceforth be but weak: the flaming 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us: threaten dust with 

death, 

And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 

What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy 

And learn at length [strength; 

How vain to war with what thy Cxod com- 

Thy former force was in thy faith, [mands: 



Ejtter Mortals ^ flying for refuge. 
Chorus of Mortals. 
The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh 
What have we done? Yet spare! [God! 

Hark! even the forest beasts howl forth their 
prayer ! 
The dragon crawls from out his den, 
To herd, in terror, innocent with men; 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair! 
Hear not man only, but all nature plead! 
Raph. Farewell, thou earth! ye wretched 
sons of clay, 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed! 

\Exit Raphael. 
Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures 
for their prey, 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament. 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath 

risen; 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

Aza. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded 
To which the elements again repair, [prison, 
To turn it into what it was: beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
As was the eagle's nestling once within 
Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements! Heed not their din! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt 
Ethereal life, will we explore: [breathe 

These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
[AZAZIEL a7id ^Si^uihSK fly off and disappear 

with Anah and Aholibamah. 
Japh. They are gone! They have disap- 
pear'd amidst the roar 
Of the forsaken world; and nevei* more. 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life. 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind ! 
What! wiltthou leave usall — all — ^//behind? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife. 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark? 

A Mother {offering her infant to JaphetJ. 
Oh let this child embark! 
I brought him forth in woe, 

But thought it joy 
To sec him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 



l82I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



531 



To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn? 

What is there in this milk of mine, that death 

Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy, 
And roli the waters o'er his placid breath? 
Save him, thou seed of Seth! 
Or cursed be — with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd! 
Japh, Peace! 'tis no hour for curses, but 
for prayer! 

Chorus of Mortals. 
For prayer! ! ! 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend. 
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains 
And burst, [bend 

And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst? 
Accursed 
Be he who made thee and thy sire! 
We deem our curses vain; we must expire; 

But as we know the worst. 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, [bent 

Since we must fall the same? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 
To make a world for torture. — Lo! they 
come. 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! [dumb ! 
And with their roar make wholesome nature 

The forests' trees (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung, [dower, 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung), 
So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopp'd, 
Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd. 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas, 
And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
Fly, son of Noah, fly! and take thine ease, 
In thine allotted ocean-tent; 
And view, all floating o'er the element. 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise! 
A MortaL Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
Yet, as his word, 
Be the decree adored! 



He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his own; 
And though these eyes should be forever shut. 
Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 

Still blessed be the Lord, 
For what is past. 
For that which is : 
For all are his. 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
He made, and can unmake; 
And shall /, for a little gasp of breath. 
Blaspheme and groan? 
No; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake! 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Where shall we fly? 
Not to the mountains high; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar. 
To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill. 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
lVo7nan. Oh, save me, save! 
Our valley is no more. 

My father and my father's tent. 
My brethren and my brethren's herds, 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent. 

And sent forth evening songs from sweetest 

The little rivulet which freshen'd all [birds, 

Our pastures green. 

No more are to be seen. 

When to the mountain cliff" I climb'd this morn, 

I turn'd to bless the spot. 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall; — . 

And now they are not! 
Why was I born? 

Japh. To die! in youth to die! 

And happier in that doom, 
Than to behold the universal tomb. 

Which I 
Am thus condemn 'd to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perisli, why must I remain? 
[ The waters rise; Men fly in every direc- 
tion; many are overtaken by the waves; 
the Chorus of Mortals disperses in search 
of safety up the mountains : Japhet 
remains upon a rock, while the Ark 
floats toivards him in the distance. 



WERNER ; OR, THE INHERITANCE: 



A TRAGEDY. 
1822. 



TO 



THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, THIS TRAGEDY IS^DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



The following drama is taken entirely from the *' German's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years ago in 
*' Lee's Canterbury Tales," written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and another, 
both of which are considered superior to the remainder of the collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, 
and even the language of many parts of this story. Some of the characters are modified or altered, a few of the 
names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself; but in the rest the original is chiefly 
followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I think) I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon 
me ; and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever 
was very popular ; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed by that ofothergreat writers in the same 
department. But I have generally found that those who ^a^ read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the 
singular power of mmd and conception which it develops. I should also add conceptioti, rather than execution ; 
for the story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed 
with mine upon this story, I could mention so;ne very high names ; but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; 
for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that he 
may see to what extent I have borrowed from v.; an J am not unwilling that he should find much greater pleas- 
ure in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this talc so far bacic as 1815 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years 
old, called " Ulric and Ilvina," which I had sense enough to burn), and had nearly completed an act, when I was 
interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst my papers in England ; but as it has not been found, 
1 have re-written the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any siiape adapted, for the stage. 
Pisa, February ^ 1822. 



Scene. — Partly 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 

RODOLPH, 
LUDWIG. 
WOMEN. 

Josephine 

Ida Stralenheim. 

the frontier ^Silesia, and partly in Siegendoif Castle, near Prague. 

Time. — The Close of the Thirty Years^ War. 



men. 
Wernek. 
Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 
Idenstein. 
Gabor. 
Fritz. 
Henrick. 



ACT I. 
Scene I. — The I/all of a decayed Palace near 
a small Town on the iVorthern Frontier of 
Silesia — the jVight tempestuous. 

Werner ^wrf' Josephine, his Wife. 
Jos, My luve, be calmer! 
Wcr, I ftui calm. 



Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from tlowerto 
But here! [flower; 

Wer, 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER, 



533 



The wind to which it waves: my blood is 

Jos, Ah, no ! [frozen. 

Wer. \smiling\. Why! wouldst thou have 
it so? 

yos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart? [not. 

Wer. All— all. \ 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which i 
must break mine? 

Wer. \approaching her slowly']. But for 
thee I had been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil; what lam [been, 
Thou knowest; what I might or should have 
Thou knowest not; but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly ^ and then 
approaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night 
Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings. 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas! [love! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my 
In watching me. 

yos. To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

yos. But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain. 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer 

earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save be- 
Her surface. [neath 

Wer. And that's not the worst : who cares 
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round 

them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am [talk'st of. 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou 

yos. And art thou not now shelter'd from 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone, [them all? 

yos. And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

yos. Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life? 

Wer^ It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we 
Have borne all this. I'll not say patiently. 
Except in thee — but we have borne it. 

yos. Well? 



]Ver. Something beyond our outward suf- 
ferings (though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever now, 
W^hen, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
And leaves us — no! this is beyond me — but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
The splendor of my rank sustain d — my name — 
My father's name — been still upheld; and. 
Than those [more 

yos. [abruptly]. My son — our son — our 
Ulric, 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms. 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve vears! he was but eight then: — beau- 
He was, and beautiful he must be now, [tiful 
My Ulric! my adored! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

yos. Lonely! my dear husband? 

PVer. Or worse — involving all I love in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave, [take 

yos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray 
Comfort. We have struggled long; and they 

who strive 
With Fortune win or weary her at last. 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of everything 
Which could bring compensation for past sor- 
And to be baffled thus ! [row — 

yos. We are not baffled. 

Wer. Are we not penniless? 

yos. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, 
and power; [them, 

Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath. 
In my o'er-fervent youth: but for the abuse 
Long sufl'erings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept 

me. 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

yos. Who knows? our son 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee? 

Wer. 'Tis hopeless. 



534 



WERNER, 



[ACT I. 



Since his strange disappearance from my fath-lBut for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers. 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon [er's, Thou might'st have earn'd thy bread, as thou 



Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course, 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger would stop short 
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 

Jos, I must hope better still, — at least we 
have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal 



sands earn it; 

Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 

Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 

Wer. \ironically\. And been an Hanseatic 

burgher? Excellent! [me thou art 

Jos. Whate'er thou might'st have been, to 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice; — which chose thee, 

knowing neither [thy sorrows: 

Ihy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save 



More fatal than a mortal malady, [sickness; j While they last, let me comfort or divide them : 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace:! When they end, let mine end with them, or thee! 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about I Wer. My better angel! Such I have ever 

By the snares of this avaricious fiend: — | found thee; 

How do I know he hath not track'd us here?; This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Jos. He does not know thy person; and l Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine, 
his spies, [Hamburgh, j Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 

Who so long watch'd thee, have been left atTn youth was such as to unmake an empire. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 'Had such been my inheritance; but now, 



Of name, leaves all discovery far behind: 

None hold us here for aught save what we 

seem. [ — sick beggars, 

Wer. Save what we seem! save what we ar^ 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha! ha! 

Jos. Alas! 

That bitter laugh! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line? 
Whoy in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 
Whoy in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry? In this worn cheek 
And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner! when you deign'd to choose for 

bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son. 
Were a fit marriage: but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 



Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to 

know 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee! 
Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth 

spring. 
My father barr'd me from my fathers' house, 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires 
(For I was then the last), it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion; although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the Gorgon's round me. 

\A loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark! 

Wer. A knocking! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour? We 
Few visitors. [have 

Wer, And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosoviy as if 
to search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh! do not look so. I 



Jos. Your father did not think so, though Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
'twas noble; I In this lone spot of wintry desolation: — 

But had my birth been all my claim to match! The veiy desert saves man from mankind. 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. | \_She goes to the door. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes? i 

Jos. All which it! ^nter Idenstein. 

Has done in our behalf,— nothing! I /^^w. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 

Wer. How,— nothing? 'And worthy What's your name, my friend? 

Jos. Or worse; for it has been a canker in Wer. Are you 

Thy heart from the beginning: but for this, Not afraid to demand it? ^ 
We had not felt our poverty but as Iden. Not afraid? 

Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully; Egad! I am afraid. You look as if 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



535 



I ask'd for something better than your name. 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer, Better, sir! 

Men, Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more? You have been a guest this 

month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a 

palace) — 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Men, A goodly name, a very worthy name, 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board: 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust. 
Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon). 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative? 

Wer. To yours? 

Jos. Oh, yes; we are, but distantly, 

\Aside to Werner]. Cannot you humor the 

dull gossip till 
We learn his purpose? 

Men. Well, I'm glad of that; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart: — blood is not water, 

cousin; 
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance: relatives should be 
Friends. [already ; 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough 
And if you have not, I've no wine to offer. 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or should 

know: 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone; but to your business! 
What brings you here? 

Men. Why, what should bring me here? 

Wer. I know not, though I think that I 
That which will send you hence, [could guess 

Jos. \aside'\. Patience, dear Werner! 

Men. You don't know what has happen'd, 
then? 

Jos. How should we? 

Men. The river has o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Alas! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days; since 
It keeps us here. 

Men. But what you don't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five po§t-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures! are you sure? 



Men. Yes, of the monkey. 

And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown. 
As it is fit that men in office should be; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him? here. 
If we can be of service — say the word. [I hope. 

Men. Here? no; but in the prince's own 
apartment. 
As fits a noble guest: 'tis damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhabited these twelve years; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow ; ne'ertheless, 
I have ordered fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope he will, with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephine, 

f Aside to his ivifc. 
Exit Josephine. 
Men. His name? oh Lord! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no? 
'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
To give an answer; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names? 
Wer. True, true. I did so: you say well 
and wisely. 

Enter Gabor. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

Men. Oh, no intrusion! 

This is the palace; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home; 
But where's his excellency? and how fares he? 

Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril: 
He paused to change his garments in a cottage 
(Where I doff 'd mine for these, and came on 

hither). 
And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
He will be here anon. 

Men. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, 

Conrad! 
\^Gives directions to different servants who 

enter. 



536 



WERNER, 



f ACT 



A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madam Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of 

this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless? 

Gab. Faith! 

I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow 
AVould please him better than the table, after 
His soaking in your river: but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

I den. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name; what is it? 

Gab. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I helped my friend to do so. 

Iden. Well, that's strange. 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so, for there are some I know so 
well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be? 

Gab. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. [aside.] I think that all the world are 
grown anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me what he's call'd! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite? 

Gab, Sufficient. 

Iden. How many? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

W^e came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage win- 
dow. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a 
great man! 
No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as re- 

Gab. Perhaps. [compense. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on? 

Gab, I have not yet put up myself to sale: 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your llockheimer — a £-7'een glass, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal de- 
vices, 
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage: 
For which I promise you, in case y(;u e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own 



It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you), 
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend. 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. [aside.] I don't much like this fellow 
— close and dry 
He seems, — two things which suit me not; 

however, 
Wine he shall have; if that unlock him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[£xi/ Idenstein. 

Gab. [to Werner]. This master of the cere- 
monies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume: 
'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 

IVer. The apartment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem delicate in health. 

Wer. [quickly.'] Sir! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me: have I said aught to offend you? 

Wer. Nothing: but we are strangers to 
each other. [less so: 

Gab. And that's the reason I would havens 
I thought our bustling host without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the 
Of me and my companions. [counterpart 

We7\ Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and 
It may be, may again encounter, why, [never, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me; my health 

Gab, Even as you please. 

I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer, I have also served, and can 
Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service? 

The imperial? 

Wer. [quickly, and then interrupting him- 
self]. I commanded — no — I mean 
I served; but it is many years ago. 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may: and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's Woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 



SCENE I.J 



WERNER, 



537 



Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but 

doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

Wer, And I — nothing. 

Gab^ That's harder still. You say you were 

Wer, I was. [a soldier. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 
Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our 
engines aim [when 

(While levell'd) at each others' hearts; but 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are 
brethren. [healthy; 

You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but 
I want for nothing which I cannot want; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it? 

[Gabor pulls out his purse, 

Wer. Who 

Told you I was a beggar? 

Gab. You, yourself. 

In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer. \looking at him with suspicion] . You 
know me not? 

Gab, I know no man, not even 

Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
Beheld till haJf an hour since? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer's noble were it to a friend, 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger. 
Though scarcely prudent; but no less I thank 
I am a beggar in all save his trade; [you. 

And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 

[Exit Werner. 

Gabn [solus]. A goodly fellow by his looks, 
though worn. 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure. 
Which tear life out of us before our time; 
I scarce know which most quickly: but he 

seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not [es 
Who has seen yesterday? — But here approach- 
Our sage intendant, with the wine: however. 
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Lien. 'Tis here! the supernaculum ! twenty 
, Of age, if 'tis a day. [years 

- Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine; and 'tis great 
pity I 



Of two such excellent things, increase of years, 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the 

other. 
Fill full — Here's to our hostess! — your fair 
wife ! [ Takes a glass . 

Iden. Fair! — Well, I trust your taste in wine 
is equal 
To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with [better 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have 
Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment), return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse? 

Iden. I would she were! 

But you're mistaken: — that's the stranger's 

wife. [prince's; 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still re- 
Much beauty, and more majesty. [tains 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
She has some of its properties, which might 
Be spared — but never mind! 

Gab, I don't. But who 

May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Ide7i. There I differ. 

He's poor as Job, and not so patient; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him. 
Except his name (and that I only learn'd 
To-night), I know not. 

Gab. But how came he here? 

Ideti. In a most miserable old caleche. 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have 
died. 

Gab. Tender and true! — but why? 

Iden. Why, what is life 

Without a living? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a per- 
Of your apparent prudence should admit [son 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true; but pity, as you know, 
does make 
One's heart commit these follies: and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time. 
Which paid their way up to the present hour; 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them at the least as long 
As they could pay for firewood. 

Gab. Poor souls! 



538 



WERNER. 



[ACT L 



I den. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going? 

Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to 
heaven itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gab, Werner! I have heard the name: 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Idcn. Like enough! 

But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency's come. 
I must be at my post; will you not join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door? 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have 
His barony or county to repel [given 

The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then, 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
A.11 roaring ** Help!" but offering none; and as 
For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now ^oyours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here! [tunity — 

Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the oppor- 
Plague take it! he'll be here, and I not there i 
[Exit Idenstein hastily 
Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. [to himself \ I heard a noise of 
wheels and voices. How 
All sounds now jar me! 

Still here! Is he not [Perceiving Gkboyl 
A spy of my pursuer's? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy; 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt; 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron. 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be), for whom this desolate village and 
X^- \oiie inhabitants show more respect 
inan did the elements, is come. 

Iden. [without']. This way — 

This way, your excellency: — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and At 
TENDANTS — partly his own, and partly 
Retainers of the Domain of which 1 1) EN 
STEIN is Intefidant. 
Stral. I'll rest me here a moment. 



Iden. [to the servants']. Ho! a chair! 

Instantly, knaves! [Stralenheim sits down, 

Wer, [aside\ 'Tis he! 

Stral. I'm better now. 

W^ho arc these strangers? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord. 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. [ahud and hastily]. W7;^ says that? 
[They look at him with surprise. 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you ox toyoul — 
Here's one his excellency may be pleased [but 
To recognize. [Pointitig to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral, I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 

I owe my rescue. Is not that the other? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succor'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to w^hom I owe so much. 

Iden. He! — no, my lord! he rather wants 
for rescue 

Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was ///j/ it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me; therefore do not 

waste 

Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage 
Your excellency rested for an hour, [where 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks. 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. [fixing his eyes upon\WEK^ER: then 
aside]. It cannot be! and yet he must be 
look'd to. 
'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes; and, though my agents still have 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof [kept 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made 
i assurance 

I If this be he or no? I thought, ere now. 



SCENE I.] WERNER, 

To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

\He pauses and looks at Werner; then re- 
sumes. 

This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary: 
An error would spoil all. 

Men. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on? 
Stral. Tis past fatigue, which gives my 
weigh'd-down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 
Iden, The prince's chamber is prepared, 
with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

\Aside'\. Somewhat tatter'd. 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch- 
light; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment: 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like 
Now, as he one day will forever lie. [one 

Stral, [risjn£^ and turning to Gabok]. Good 
night, good people I Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the mean time, I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gad. I attend you. 

Stral. la/ter a few stepSy pauses ^ and calls 

Werner.] Friend! 
Wer. Sir. 

Iden. Sir! Lord — oh Lord! Why don't you 
His lordship, or his excellency? Pray, [say 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of 

breeding: 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral, [to Idenstein]. Peace, intendant! 
Iden. Oh! 

I am dumb. [here? 

Stral. [to Werner]. Have you been long 
Wer, Long? 

StraL I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed! Ne'ertheless 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
I ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 



539 

StraL The intendant said you had been 

detain'd by sickness — 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way? 

Wer, [quickly\ I am not journeying the 
same way. 

Stral. How know yC 

That, ere you know my route? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer, [bitterly\ Is it? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me? 

Stral. [startled], I? 

Wer, Yes — you! you know me not, and 

question me, • 

And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 

My inquisitor. Explain what you would have. 

And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. [reserve. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for 

Wer, Many have such: — Have you none? 

Stral, None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 

Wer, Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward: 
I only meant you service — but goodnight! 
Intendant, show the way! [To Gabor]. 
Sir, you will with me? 

[Exeunt Stralenheim fl«^ Attendants, 
Idenstein and Gabor. 

Wer. [solus]. 'Tis he! I am taken in the 
toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ' x>'Ul 
I deem'd this humble garb, and rou*^ , obscure, 
Had baffled the slow hounds in thcir pursuit 
What's to be done? He knows me not by 
person; [sion. 

Nor could aught, save the eye ot apprehen* 
Have recognized hiMf after twenty years, 



540 



JVEKXEK. 



\\c\ I. 



We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralen- 

heim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers. 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril, with men's lives, — 
How can I hope? An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair; and now, 'tis such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favoring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Men. I tell you, 'tis impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from P^ankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest! [chair 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy- 
Beside the hre, and slumbers; and has (^rder'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

An hour is past, I'll do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember! \ExitYK[.'\'L. 

Iden. The devil take these great men; they 
Think all things made for them. Now here 

must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant ])allets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatcli them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own expe- 
rience [ing: 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feel- 
But no, 'Mt;///^^/," and there's an end. How 
Are you there. Mynheer Werner? [now? 

IVer. Vou have left 

Your noble guest right (juickly. 

Iden, Yes, he's dozing. 

And seems to like that none should sleep be- 
Here is a packet for the commandant [sides. 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and expenses; 
But I must not lose time: (iood night! \Exit. 

Wer. '' To Frank fori! " 

So, so, ji thickens! Ay, " llie coinin.'uniani," 



This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a 

knife lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps! How do I know that Stra- 

lenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation? 
That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone : 
He with a numerous train. I weak: he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer 

still! 
I'll to the secret passage which communicates 
With the No! all is silent — 'twas my 

fancy ! — 
Still as the breathless interval between 
The flash and thunder; — I must hush my soul 
Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
To see if still be unexplored the passage 
I wot of: it will serve me as a den 
Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
[Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing 

it after him. 

Enter Gabor d!;?^!' Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband? 

Jos. Here, I thought: I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved? 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Op})rcssi()n. I know well these nobles, and 
Tiicir thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I luive proved them; and my spirit boils up 
when 



SCENE I.] 



tVERNER, 



541 



I find them practising against the weak: — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 

Gad. Is he so suspicious? 

yos. He was not once; but time and trou- 
Made him what you beheld. [bles have 

Gab. I'm sony for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and [tects. 

With its own weight impedes more than pro- 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at day- 
break. [Exit. 

Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants. 
Josephine retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd? 

Iden^ Why, you will be well paid for't. 

And have risk'd more than drowning for as 
I doubt not. [much, 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 

Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, 
Be better. [and may 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and willj 
venture. i 

Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to 
A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks [be 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed; 
And you shall have besides, in sparkling coin, ' 
Two thalers. ; 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in , 

Small change will subdivide into a treasure, j 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
When had you half the sum? i 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. I 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave? ! 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's. 

And not the stranger's. ' 

Iden. Sirrah! in the prince's 

Absence, I am sovereign; and the baron is 
iMy intimate connexion; — ** Cousin Idenstein I 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I 
And if a single dog's ear of this packet [say; 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum. 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who cannot effect . 

Impossibilities. — Away, ye earth-worms! | 
\Exity driving them out. 



Jos. \co7ning forward^. I fain would shun 
these scenes, too oft repeated, 
I Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
I Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
I The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more servile; 
And vice in misery affecting still 
A tatter'd splendor. What a state of being! 
Tn Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
' Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
As these; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
I Was in itself a meal, and every vine [glad 
Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes 
The heart of man; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
jBut, here! the despots of the north appear 
j To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 
Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 
To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 
His form. And 'tis to be amongst these 

sovereigns 
My husband pants! and such his pride of 
Tha*- twenty years of usage, such as no [birth — 
Father born in a humble state could nerve 
His soul to persecute his son withal, 
Hath changed no atom of his early nature; 
But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father! 
May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
Look down on us and our so long desired 
Ulric! I love my son, as thou didst me! 
What's that? Thou, Werner! can it be? and 
thus? 

\Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in his 
hand, by the secret panel, which he closes 
hurriedly after him. 

IVer. [not at first recognizing her.] Dis- 
cover'd! then I'll stab — [recognizi^tgher]. 
Ah! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest? 

Jos. What rest? My God! 

What does this mean? 

JVer. [showing a rouleau']. Here's gold — 
gold, Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
Jos. And how obtain'd — that knife! 
M'^er. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 

Awav — we must to our chamber. 



542 



WERNER, 



[ACT II. 



Jos. But whence comest thou? 

IVer. Ask not! but let us think where we 
shall go — 
This — this will make us way — [showing- the 
gold\ — I'll fit them now. 

Jos'. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 

Wer, Dishonor! 

Jos. I have said it. 

IVer. Let us hence: 

'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. [here.j 

IVer. Hope! Imakejwr^ji 

But let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question 

What hast thou done ? 

Wer. \Jiercely\. Left one thing undone, 
which 
Had made all well: let me not think of it! 
Away I 

Jos, Alas, that I should doubt of thee! 

\Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace, 
Enter Idenstein and others. 
Iden. Fine doings! goodly doings! honest 
doings! 
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace! [of. 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard 
Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats 
despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. [day! 
Iden. Oh! that I e'er should live to see this 
The honor of our city's gone forever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delin- 
The baron is determined not to lose [quent: 
This sum without a search. 

Iden. And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect? 
Iden. Suspect! all people 

Without — within — above — below — Heaven 
help me! 
Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the 

chamber? 
Iden. None whatsoever. 
Fritz. Are you sure of that? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served 
here since my birth, [such, 

And if there were such, must have heard of 
Or seen it. 

Iritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber, 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man call'd Werner'' s poor I 
Iden. Poor as a miser; 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 



By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night" in the hall. 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There's another, 

The stranger 

Iden, The Hungarian? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite? 

Fritz. How? We, sir! 

Iden. No — not you. 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night- 
gown; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold; of which t>«<fonly 
Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

Be not so quick; the honor of the corps 
Which form'd the baron's household's unim- 

peach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation; such as in accompts. 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where all men take their prey; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents. 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters; 
But for your petty, picking, downright thiev- 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then [ery, 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd 
Also the cabinet, if portable. [all; 

Iden. There is some sense in that 

Fritz, No, sir, be sure 

'Twas none of our corps; but some petty, triv- 
Picker and stealer, without art or genius, [ial 
The only question is — Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 

Ide7t. You don't mean me? 

Fritz. No, sir; I honor more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's 
to be done? [be said. 

Iden. Nothing — but there's a good deal to 
Well offer A reward; move heaven and earth; 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



543 



And the police (though there's none nearer 

than 
Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 
(For we've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
To read them (for few can, save he and I) \ 
We'll send out villagers to strip beggars, and 
Search empty pockets; also to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found, 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchemy 
For your lord's losses! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where? 

Fritz, In a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kins- 
man, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

Nokeir? 

Fritz. Oh, yes; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the 
world. I 

A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban ! 

For the last twenty years : for whom his sire ! 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore. 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, ! 
Were he to re-appear: he's politic, | 

And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He's fortunate. i 

Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson I 

Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's 
And educated as his heir: but then [hands,. 
His birth is doubtful. I 

Iden. How so? | 

Fritz. His sire madei 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage,^ 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter: I 
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be 

brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough; they say. 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter: but 
The strangest is that he, too, disappear'd 
Some months ago. 



Iden. The devil he did! 

Fritz, Why, yes; 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve [by it. 

Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken 

Iden. Was there no cause assign'd? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents: some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him) ; 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
But peace being made soon after his departure. 
He might have since return'd, were that the 

motive; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised, [him. 
As there was something strange and mystic in 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste 

Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be, 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury. 
To risk his life and honors wdth disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your In- 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy [dian, 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all. 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and 

Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale; 
And now that they are gone, and peace pro- 

claim'd. 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escap'fe. 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 

All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even 

them. 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words. 
And blush at my own barren gratitude. 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 



S44 



WERNER. 



[act II. 



Vour courteous courage did in my behalf 

I Ir, I pray you press the theme no further. 

Strut. But 

Can I not serve you? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes; fair in 

favor; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stranger, 
In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
You are made for the service: I have served; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and 
friends, [peace 

Who shall be yours. 'Tis true this pause of; 
Favors such views at present scantily; | 

But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring; j 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace j 

Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce, [time,' 
War will reclaim his own; and, in the mean; 
You might obtain a post, which would insure^ 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail noti 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the Elector; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
Induced it, 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury! 

I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. W^ell, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly born? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask 

Ulr. Ulric. [your name? 

Stral. Your house's? 

Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 

I'll answer you. 

Stral. \aside\. Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous 

frontiers, 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz aw^ Idenstein. 
So, sirs! how have ye sped in your researches? 

Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 



I am to deem the plunderer is caught? 

Iden. Humph! — not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected? 

Iden. Oh! for that matter, very much sus- 

Stral. Who may he be? [pected. 

Iden. Why, don't jr^w know, my lord? 

Stral. How should I? I was fast asleep. 

Iden. And so 

Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt! 

Iden. . Why, if 

Your lordship, beijig robb'd, don't recognize 
The rogue, how should I, not being robb'd, 

identify 
The thief among so many! In the crowd. 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better: 
'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon, 
That wise men know your felon by his features; 
But I'll engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no. 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. [7^0 Fritz]. Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss (which I must own 
affects me 
Just now materially), I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would 
Leave^bare your borough. Sir Intendant! [soon 

Ide7t. True;- 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Ulr. What is all this? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last 

night. 

Ulr. Some rumor of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Ide7i. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. [impatiently \. Defer your tale, 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 

Can only be approved by proofs. You see — '■ 

Stral. [again interrupting him, and address- 
ing Ulric]. In short, I was asleep upon a 
My cabinet before me, with some gold [chair, 
Upon it (more than I much like to lose. 
Though in part only): some ingenious person 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



545 



Contrived to glide through all my own attend- 
ants, 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this, 

Though siighter,yet not slight,to aid these men He's poor, and 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? ! known, 



Rise not the higher (and the weather favors 
Their quick abatement), and I'll have him safe 
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
His real estate and name; and there's no harm 
done, [robbery 

Should he prove other than I deem. This 
(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also; 

that's suspicious — he's un- 
[proofs 



Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of And that's defenceless. — True, we have no 

time Of guilt, — but what hath he of innocence? 

\To IdensteinJ, Come hither, mynheer! jWere he a man indifferent to my prospects, 

Iden. But so much haste bodes; In other bearings, I should rather lay 
Right little speed, and jThe inculpation on the Hungarian, who 

Uh\ Standing motionless' Hath something which I like not; and alone 

None; so let's march: we'll talk as we go on. I Of all around, except the intendant, and 



Iden, But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you. 
Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
Fritz. Hence! 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy rid- 
dle! [Exit with Idenstein a«^ Fritz. 



The prince's household and my own, had in- 
Familiar to the chamber. [gress 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you? 
Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, 
when they 
Stral. [solus]. A stalwart, active, soldier- j Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter 
looking stripling. And you, my lord? [how — 

Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, j Stral. Better in rest than purse: 

And with a brow of thought beyond his years jMine inn is like to cost me dear. 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up j Gad. I heard 

In answeringyours. I wish I could engage him : ; Of your late loss; but 'tis a trifle to 
I have need of some such spirits near me now, j One of your order. 

For this inheritance is worth a struggle, [one, | Stral. You would hardly think so. 

And though I am not the man to yield without. Were the loss yours. 

Neither are they who now rise up between me Gab. I never had so much [not 

And my desire. The boy, they say, is a bold (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am 
one; Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 

But he hath play'd the truant in some hour \ Your couriers are turn'd back — I have out- 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to [whom In my return. [stripp'd them. 



Champion his claims. That's well. The father, 
For years I've track'd, as does the bloodhound, 

never 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
To fault; but her el have him, and that's better. 
It must be >^^.^ All circumstance proclaims it; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it. — Yes! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time; the account, too. 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met. 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each 

other 
By secret instinct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either; 
All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
The order comes from F rankfort, if these waters 



Stral, You!— Why? 

Gab. I went at daybreak. 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
Arfid, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage? 
I order'd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream) and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it: 

The knaves! the slaves! — but they shall smart 
for this. [Exit Stralenheim. 

Gab. [solus]. There goes my noble, feudal, 
self-will'd baron! 
35 



546 



WERNER. 



[ACT II 



Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The preiix chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fiU'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming halfway through the 

window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance; 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too! Yet, he's 

right: [put them 

'Tis strange they should, when such as he may 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest! 

\Exit Gabor. 

Scene II. — The Apartment of ^^^^y.y., in 
the Palace. 

Efiter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos, Stand back, and let me look on thee 
My Ulric! — ^my beloved! — can it be — [again! 
After twelve years? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful! 
How more than all I sigh'd for! Heaven receive ' 
A mother's thanks! — a mother's tears of joy! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour,too, 
He comes not only as a son, but savior. 

Ulr, If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive 
This long delay was not my fault. [me! 

Ji?s. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
My memory by this oblivious transport! — 
My son! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer^ What have we here, — more strangers? 

Jos. No! 

Look upon him! What do you see? 

V/er. A stripling, 

For the first time 

Ulr. )kneeling\. For twelve long vears, my 

^^^-.-Oh, God! ' [father! 

Jos. He faints! 

Wer, No — I am better now — 

Ulric 1 [Embraces htm]. 

Ulr, My father, Siegendorf! 

Wer, \ starting]. Hush! boy — 

The walls may hear that namel 

Ulr, What then? 

WV, Why, then— 



I But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine! 
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me; 
But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have 
This for my son ! [chosen 

Ulr. And yet you knew me not! 

Wer. Alas! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. [I 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly: 
Have not forgotten aught; and ofttimes in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name 

them, 
As you say that 'tis perilous), but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back ' 
To the Bohemianmountains many a sunset, 
And wept to see another day go down [us. 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more? [age, 

Ulr. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green old 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three 
months since. 

Wer. Why did you leave him? 

Jos. \embracing Ulric]. Can you ask that 
Is he not here ? [question ? 

Wer, True; he hath sought his parents. 

And found them; but oh! hoWy and in what 
state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, [do 
Or rather yours; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the fore- 
most, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form: 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer, Have you not heard of Stralenheim? 

Ulr, I saved 

His life but yesterday; he's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all. 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles: what is this Stralenheim to us? 

Wer. Everything. One who claims our 
father's lands; 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr, I never heard his name till now. The 
count, 

Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who. 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 



SCENE II.] 



WERNER. 



547 



Involved in the succession; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer, Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he is all-powerful; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favor. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you? 

Wer, No; but he guesses shrewdly at my 
person, 
As he betray'd last night: and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulr, I think you wrong him 

(Excuse me for the phrase); but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, [ent. 
He owes me something both for past and pres- 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came 

hither: 
Is sick; a stranger; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that: but I 
Have found, in searching for another dross. 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents! 

Wer, [agitatedly]. Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of ** villain " ? 

Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an un- 
With an infernal stigma? [known being 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer, Who taught you, long-sought and ill- 
found boy! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me? 

Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in 
With such a being and my father? [common 

Wer, Everything ! 

That ruffian is thy father! 

yos. Oh, my son! 

Believe him not — and yet — [her voice falters], 

Ulr. [starts, looks earnestly at Werner 
and then says slowly y\ And you avow it? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your 
father. 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 
Is it for you to measure passion's force. 
Or misery's temptation? Wait — (not long. 
It Cometh like the night and quickly)— Wait !— 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cab- 
Famine and poverty your guests at table; [in; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 



From sleep, and judge! Should that day e'er 

arrive — 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coiPd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path. 
With but his folds between your steps and 

happiness. 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
Xands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor; midnight for your 

mantle; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe; and he as 'twere 
Inviting death, by looking like it, while [God ! 
jHis death alone can save yoii: — Thank your 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder. 

You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr, But 

Wer. [abruptly. \ Hear me! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You [learn 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least im- 
pulse — [earth. 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from 
He was within my power — my knife was 

raised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his: — are you not so? 
Who tells you that he knows you not? Who 

says 
He hath not lured you here to end you? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dun- 
geon? [He pauses., 
Ulr. Proceed — proceed! 
Wer. Me he hath ever known. 
And hunted through each change of time — 
name — fortune — [men? 
And why not you? Are you more versed in 
He wound snares round me! flung along my 
path [spurn'd 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have 
Even from my presence; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. W^ill you be 
More patient? Ulric! — Ulric! there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 
Ulr. [who looks first at him, and then at 

Josephine]. My mother! 
Wer, Ah! I thought so; you have no^¥ 
Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 



54S 



WERNER, 



[ACT IT. 



Uli\ But stay! 

[Werner rushes oul of the chamber. 

jfos. [to UlricJ. Follow him not, until this 
storm of passion 
Abates. Think^st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not follow 'd? 

Ulr. I obey you, mother. 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, and 
That this is but the surface of his soul, [for him. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's prin- 
My mother thinks not with him? [ciples? 

jfos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner! 

Jos. Ay! 

Hadst thou but done so! 



Enter Gabor and Idenstein, 
Attendants. 



with 



Gab. [to Ulric]. I have sought you, Gom- 
So this is my reward! [rade. 

Ulr. What do you mean? 

Gab. 'Sdeath! have I lived to these years, 

and for this! [would 

[ To Idenstein J. But for your age and folly, I 

Iden. Help! 

Hands off! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

I'll honor you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone* by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite; but there 
Those who have greater need of it than me. [are 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then. 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester' evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 



Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men> 
The worms! you hound of malice! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 
Ulr. [interfering]. Nay, no violence; 

He's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor! 

Gab. [letting go Idensteih]. True: 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave: it is their homage. 

Ulr. [to Idenstein]. How 

Fare you? 

Help! 

I have help'd you. 

Kill him! then 



Iden. 
Ulr. 
Iden. 
I'll say so. 
Gab. 
Iden. 



* The Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet 
of Germany, and is so called from the ravens perching 
on it. 



I am calm — live on! 

That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judg- 

In Germany. The baron shall decide! [ment 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation? 

Iden. Does he not? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drown - 
But here he comes! [ii^g- 

Enter Stralenheim. 

Gab. [goes up to hini\^ My noble lord, I'm 

Stral. Well, sir! [here! 

Gab. litave you aught with me? 

Stral. What should I 

Have with you? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wash'd away your memory; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber: — is the charge your own or his? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron? 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to 
Or scarcely to suspect. [acquit, 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am in- 
sulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal, 

Stral. You! 

Gab. Ay, sir; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior; but proceed — 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises. 
And circumstance, and proof: I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe 
me. 



SCENE II. ] 



WERNER. 



549 



To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such. as would leave your scutcheon but a 
But this is nothing: I demand of you [blank. 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence: thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more. 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tone 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath! who dare doubt it. 

Except such villains as ne'er had it? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master? 
Stral. Ulric! you know this man; I found 
Your company. [him in 

Gab. We iown^you in the Oder, 

Would we had left you there! 

Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I've earn'd them ; but might have earn'd 
more from others. 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 
Stral. Ulric! you know this man? 
Gab. No more than you do. 

If he avouches not my honor. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connection led me, honor. 

Stral. Then 

I am satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically^. Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine? 

StraL I merely said that / 

Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 
Gab. Again! Am I accused or no? 
Stral. Go to! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you. 
Is the fault mine? Is't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence? 
Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence; 

you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it; but beware! you know noL whom 
You strive to tread (jn. 

Stral. Threat'st thou? 



Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning, 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you 
something, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

StraL With bootless insolence. 

\To his Attendants ^w^/Idensteix. 

You need not further to molest this man. 

But let him go his way, Ulric, good morrow ! 

{Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, ajtd 

Attendants. 

Gab. [following^. I'll after him and 

Ulr. [stopping hint]. Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me? 

Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 
Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his 
skin — [words? 

And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and 

Gab. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 
'twere 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There's something daring in it; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

Ulr. It seems, then. 

You are not guilty. 

Gab. Do I hear aright? 

You too! 

Ulr, I merely asked a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, — I would answer 
**No"— 
To you I answer thus, [He draws. 

Ulr. [drawing]. With all my heart! 

Jos. Without there! Ho! help! help!— Oh, 
God! here's murder! 

[Exit Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor andV'LKlcJight. Gabor is disarmed 
just as Stralenheim, Josephine, Iden- 
stein, ^c.y re-enter. 

Jos. Oh! glorious heaven! He's safe! 
Stral. [/^Josephine]. ^>^^'j safe? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. [interrupting her with a stern look, 
and turning aftertvards to Stralen- 
heim j. Both! 
Here's no great harm done. 
StraL What hath caused all this? 



ss^ 



WERNER, 



[act it. 



Ulr. You, baron, I believe; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor! 
There is your sword; and when you bare it next. 
Let it not be against yowx friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last zuords slowly 
and ettiphatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. \taki7ig his sword'\ . They shall. You've 
wrong'd me, Ulric, [would 

More with your unkind thoughts than sword: 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance [noble's 

And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit hi^n yet: — you have vanquish'd 
I was the fool of passion to conceive [me. 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already prove^l by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
However — but in friendship. \Exit Gabor. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. \to Idenstein]. Intendant! take 
your measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort, 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Iden. Secure him! He hath got his sword 
again — 
And seems to know the use on't; 'tis his trade. 
Belike; — I'm a civilian, 

Stral. Fool! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence! after 
him! 

Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you! 

Stral. I must be 

Ol^eyVl. No words! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so — 

March, vassals ! I'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up: a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

{Exit Idenstein and Attendants, 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric; what does that woman here? Oh! now 
I rec<jgni/.e her, 'tis the sti anger's wife 
Whom they name ** Werner." 



Ulr. 'Tis his name. 

Stral. Indeed! 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame? — 

Jos, Who seeks him? 

Stral. No one — for the present: but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

Jos. Not so; 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. [have a care — 

{Aside to Ulric, as she goes out\ O Ulric! 
Remember what depends on a rash word! 

Ulr. [to Josephine]. Fear not! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you; 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

U^lr. Say on. 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. Who? Gabor — the Hungarian? 

Stral. No — this ** Werner" — 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye: 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 'tis no matter; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension), 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours fur- 

Ulr. And what have I to do with this? [ther. 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg), 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

Ulr. It is abating 

Stral. That is well. 

Ulr. But how- 

Am I concern'd? 

StraL As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me thaij 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him! 
The man avoids me, knows that i now know 
him. — [boar when 

Watch him! — as you would watch the wild 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap- 
Like him he must bespear'd. 
j Ulr. W^hyso? 

I Stral, He stands 



SCENE II.J 



WERNER, 



551 



Between me and a brave inheritance! 
Oh! could you see it! But you shall. 

Ulr, I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly: so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms far and near 
Made deserts. 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say 
As I have said, you shall. [so — but 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and 
me. 
Such as both may make worthy your accept- 
And services to me and mine forever, [ance 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable 
wretch — 
This wayworn stranger — stands between you 
This Paradise? — (As Adam did between [and 
The devil and his). — [Aside.] 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right? 

StraL Right! none. A disinherited prodigal. 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lin- 
eage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burgh- 
ers. 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

Ulr. He has a wife, then? 

Stral. You'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the 
He calls his wife. [woman 

Ulr. Is she not so? 

Stral. No more 

Than he's your father: — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with* this same Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard. 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ev^r doting) took to warm his bosom. 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — ^he has fled. 
No one knows whither; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. — Why do you smile? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. All's to be fear'd, where all is to be 
gain'd. 

67r. True; and aught done to save or to 
obtain it. 



Stral. You have harp'd the very string next 
I may depend upon you? [to my heart. 

Ulr. 'Twere too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely [pected, 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more sus- 
Except that circumstance is less against him; 
Pie being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine; and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act: 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes ■■ 
them heirs, [lose nothing, ' ' , 

Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can 
Nor e'er be robb'd: their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

Stral. Go to! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man. 
And let me know his slightest movement 
Concealment or escape? [towards ^ 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and forever. 

Ulr, Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace, from 

whence the secret passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please 
To give me a refuge for a few hours, well — [you 
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. Plow 
Can I, so wretched, give to Misery 
A shelter? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay. 
And rip the hunter's €i>trails. 

Wer, Ah ! 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced [disgraced? 

Wer. [abruptly]. Who told you that I was 

Gab, No one : nor did I s&y you were so : with 



55^ 



WERXEK. 



[act III. 



Your poverty my likeness ended; but 

I said / was so — and would add, with truth. 

As undeservedly 2t.syou. 

IVer. Again ! 

As // 

Gab, Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have? You don't 
Guilty of this base theft? [believe me 

JVer. No, no-^l cannot. 

Gab. \Vhy, that's my heart of honor! yon 
young gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All — all suspected me; and why? because 
I am the worst clothed and least named amongst 

them : 
Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs: but thus it is — you poor and help- 
Both still more than myself. [less 

IVer. How knew you that? 

Gab. You're right : I ask for shelter at the 
hand 
Which I call helpless; if you now deny it, 
I w^ere wx^U paid. But you, who seem to have 

proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about, 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance. 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power. 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer, What do you mean? 

Gab^ Just what I say; I thought my speech 
was plain; 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

IVe?'. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab, So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say (and no doubt they should know 

best). 
Therefore I'll stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave; 
To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

PVer. Abated? Is there hope of that? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

We7\ Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are yott 

In peril? 

H'er. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will 
Promise to make mine lessj [you not 



Wer. Your poverty? 

Gab. No — you don't look a leech for that dis- 
I meant my peril only: you've a roof, [order; 
And I have none; I merely seek a covert. 

IVer. Rightly; for how should such a 
Have gold? [wretch as I 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 
Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

IVer. Dare you insinuate? 

Gab. What? 

IVer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak? 

Gab. No; and I am not'used 

Greatly to care. [ A noise heard without. \ But 
hark! they come! 

IVer. Who come? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds 
after me: 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you. 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your own case! 

Wer. [a5ide\ Oh, just God! 

Thy hell is not hereafter! Am I dust still? 

Gab. I see you are moved: and it shows 
I may live to requite it. [well in you: 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's? 

Gab. Not I! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in you? 
Although, I recollect, his frequent question 
About you and yt3ur spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion; but you best know — what — and 
I am his deadliest foe. [why. 

Wer, You? 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy: 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. I will. 

Gab. But how? 

Wer. [showing the pane P^. There is a secret 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, [spring: 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it, 

As I have said: it leads through winding walls 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
'Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness), 
'And hollow cells, and obs'^.ure niches, to 
I know not whither; you must not advance: 
'Give me your word. 

; Gab. It is unnecessary : 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings? 



SCENE J.] 



WERNER. 



553 



Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it 
may lead? [might not 

/ know not — mark you! — but who knows it 
Lead even into the chamber of your foe? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbor. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings; if you do 
(Albeit I never pass'd them), I'll not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks! 

Wer, You'll find the spring more obvious 
On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I'll in — farewell! 

[Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 

Wer, \solus\ What have I done? Alas! 
what had I done 
Before to make this fearful? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come! to seek elsewhere what is before 
them ! 

Enter Idenstein and others. 

Men. Is he not here? He must have vanishM 
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid[then 
Ofpictured saints upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams 
like sunrise [crosses, 

On long pearl-color'd beards and crimson 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and 
cowls, [swords. 

And helms, and twisted armor, and long 
All the fantastic furniture of windows [whose 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits. 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. ^ Whom do you seek? 

Iden. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Stand there: but where's he gone? 

Wer. Who? 

Iden. He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Iden. And yet we traced kim 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices? 
Or deal you in the black art? 



Wer, I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter; but we must continue now 
Our seach for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now: I may not be 
So patient always. 

Iden. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent! 

Said you not that he was not here? 

Iden. Yes, one ; 

But there's another whom he tracks more 
And soon, it may be, with authority [keenly. 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come! 
Bustle, my boys! we are at fault. 

\Exit Idenstein ^;^</ Attendant. 

Wer, In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil, rising in my heart! 
Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with blood. 

Enter Ulric. 

Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer, Is't not dangerous? 

Ulr. No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer, I cannot think it: 

'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in our path. 
But must break through them, as an unarm 'd 
carle [rustling 

Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 
In the same thicket where hehew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so: 
We'll overfly or rend them. 

Wer, Show me how? 

Ulr. Can you not guess? 

Wer, I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last 

Wer. I understand you not. [night? 

Ulr. Then we shall never 

I More understand each other. But to change 

The topic 

I Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

1 'Tis of our safety. 



554 



WERNER. 



[act 111:. 



Ulr. Right; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating; a few hours 
Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from 

Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 
Wer. And now your remedy! I thought to 
escape 
By means of this accursed gold; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my 

temples. 
And cry to all beholders — Lo! a villain! 
Ulr. You must not use it, at least now; 
but take 
This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 
Ulr, And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too! 

Ulr. Fear nothing! 

The only fear were if we fled together. 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort; so far's in our favor. 
The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd. 
Is not impassable; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy! 

Ulr. Hush! hush! no transports: we'll in- 
dulge in them 
In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold: 
Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
And have look'd through him) : it will answer 

thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
iVb jewel; therefore it could not be his; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus con- 
vert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 



Wer. I will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble; but had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favor, 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angell! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing,' 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father 

Wer. To part no more! 

Ulr. I know not that; but a 

The least we'll meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver 
Oh, do not hate me! 

Ulr. Hate my father! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

Wer. Scorpion 

Are in thy words! Thou know me? in thisguis 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I'll wait I 

In the mean time be sure that all a son* 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 

Wer. I see it, and I feel it; yet I feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Ulr, Wherefore should I 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation? 

Ulr. No 

I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house. 
At secret war with that of Stralenheim: 
All we have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

Wer. The only one. 

And I embrace it, as I did my son. 
Who show'd himself 2.xvA father's safety in 
One day. 

Ulr. You shall h^ safe; let that suffice< 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemian 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we werce 
Admitted to our lands? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the hrst 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest 
Especially the next in blood. 

Ulr. Blood! 'tis 

A word of many meanings; in the veins. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



555 



And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren; when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be — 

And should, perhaps — and yet but get ye 

ready; 
Vou Und my mother must away to-night. 
Here comes theintendant; sound him with the 
Twill sink into his venal soul like lead [gem ; 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud, 
And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
With its greased understratum; but no less 
Will serve to warn our vessels through these 

shoals. 
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time! 
Farewell 1 1 scarce have time,but yet your hand, 
My father! 

Wei'. Let me embrace thee! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed! subdue your nature to the hour! 
jKeep off from me as from your foe ! 
\ Wer. Accursed 

(Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts ! 
|A.t such an hour too! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you! 

ere is the intendant. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Master Idenstein, 
I [ow fare you in your purpose? Have you 
he rogue? [caught 

Iden. No, faith! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 

"ou may have better luck another chase, 
^^here is the baron? 
Iden. Gone back to his chamber: 

Lnd now I think on't, asking after you 
Vith nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Vlust be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
3f the stung steed replies unto the spur: [not, 
Tis well they have horses, too; for if they had 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
rhey say kings did Sesostris. 
Iden. W^howashe? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 
Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he one? 
Ulr. I've heard so; but I must take leave. 
Intendant, 
Vour servant ! — W^erner \to Werner slightly], 

if that be your name, 
Vouis. [Exit Ulkic. 



Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 
You see, sir: how he gave to each his due 
Precedence! 

IVer. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That's well^ 

That's very well. You also know your place, 

too; 
And yet I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. [showing the ring']. Would this assist 
I your knowledge? 

Iden. How!— What!— Eh! 

A jewel. 

Wer. 'Tis your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 

Wer. That hereafter you permit me 

At thrice its value to redeem it: 'tis 
A family ring. 

I Iden. A family! yours! a gem'. 

I I'm breathless! 

I Wer. You must also furnish me. 

An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit 
This place. 

' Iden. But is it real? Let me look on it: 
Diamond, by all that's glorious ! 
I Wer. Come, I'll trust you: 

jYou have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born 
My present seeming. [above 

Iden. I can't say I did. 

Though this looks like it: this is the true 
Of gentle blood! [breeding 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

W'hom Stralenheim's in quest of? 

Wer. I am not; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To much embarrassment to me just now. 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 'tis 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

Ideit. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my busi- 
ness; 
Besides, I never could obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would 

raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin. 
And never offer a precise reward — 
But this I another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler I 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine! thou loadstar of 
I The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 



556 



WERNER. 



[ACT 



All hearts point duly north, like trembling 

needles! [tirig 

Thou flaming spirit of the earth! which, sit- 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, 

like [tre! 

Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lus- 
Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchemist — , 

A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else? 

IVe)'. Call me Werner still; 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

Iden. 1 do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb. — 
But come, I'll serve thee! thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters; let us hence: 
I'll show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel!) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such 

means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again! 
I have a foster brother in the mart [many 

Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones — How 
Carats may it weigh? — Come, Werner, I will 

wing thee. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All's ready, my good lord! 

Stral. I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slum- 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, [ber, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor 

yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
*Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between 
And man, an everlasting mist: — I will [man 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear? 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear 

Because an undescribable but 'tis [more, 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last 
Adventure makes it needful. [night's 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
W^ho saved your life. I think they call him 
" Ulric" [wliat right 

Stral. \\)W think ! you supcrciiiuus slave! 



Have you to tax your memory, which she 

be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the nc 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty?- 
Get hence! ^^ You think,'''' indeed! you, v 

stood still 
Howling and dripping on the bank, whils 
Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank him — and despise you. ** You thin^ 

and scarce 
Can recollect his name! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good nig 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordshi] 
To renovated strength and temper. 

\The sce7te do. 

Scene III. — The secret Passage. 



Gab. [solus^. Fou 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the gu 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock; 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even vvl 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjn 

ment 
With every clang. *Tis a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage feast it rings: e. 

stroke 
Peals for a hope the less; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession : while the knof 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I'm cold— 
I'm dark; — I've blown my fingers — numbe 

o'er [agai 

And o'er my steps — and knock'd my h« 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wii 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light! It is at distance (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance): but it blint- 
As through a crevice or a keyhole in 
The inhibited direction; I must on. 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident [ 

In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it L 
To nothing that may tempt me! Else — Hea'i 

aid me 
To obtain or to escape it! Shining still! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly: mighty well! 
That corner's turn'd — so— ah! no;— right 

dravvb 



£NE IV,] 



\VER\^Ek. 



ill 



arei*. Here is a darksome angle — so, 
at's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose 

it leads 
o some greater danger than tliat which 
ave escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one; 
d novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
ear more magnetic aspects: — 1 will on, 
id be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
hich may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, j 
ou little light! TYiOM "ax^. \\\y ignis fattius ! 
f stationary Will-o'-the-wisp! — So! so! | 
p| hears my invocation, and fails not. 

\The scene closes. 

Scene IV. — A Garden. 
Enter Werner. 
^Ver. I could not sleep — and now the hour's 

at hand; 
's ready. Idenstein has kept his word; 
d station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
)on the forest's edge, the vehicle 
mits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
pale in heaven; and for the last time I 
ok on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
all I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
t notdishonor'd: and I leave them with 
itain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
fl heart! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
iich ail the coming splendor of the lands, 
)d rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
e means of restitution, which would ease 

tsoul in part: buthow without discovery? — 
lUst be done, however; and I'll pause 
on the method the first hour of safety. 
e madness of my misery led to this 
56 infamy; repentance must retrieve it: 
rill have nought of Stralenheim's upon 
spirit, though he would grasp all of mine; 
nds, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps! as 

soundly, 
haps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
read for his canopy, o'er silken pillows, 

ch as when Hark! what noise is that? 

Again! [have fallen 

e branches shake; and some loose stones 
Dm yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps from the terrace, 
Ulric! ever welcome! 

rice welcome now! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

2 approach, tell nie 

Wer. Why look you so? 

Ulr. Do I 

hold my father, or 

Wer, What? 

Ulr, An assassin? 



Wer. Insane or insolent! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine! 

Wer. To what must 1 

Answer? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you? 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night 
before) 
Retrace the secret passage? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and 

[Ulric pauses, 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr, Died he not by your hand? 

Wer Great God! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then! my father's 
innocent! [y^s, yes, — 

Embrace me! Yes, — your tone — your look — 
Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
Conceived deliberately such a thought. 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment 

through 

The irritation of my oppress'd spirit — 
May heaven be shut forever from my hopes, 
As from mine eyes. 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'Tis horrible! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hate- 
But what have I to do with this? [ful! — 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced; no violence can be detected. 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd; but as the intendant is 
Absent, 1 took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy! what unknown woes 
Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house! 

Ulr. My father! I acquit you! 

But will the world do so? will even the judge, 
If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. No! 

I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me? 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's? 

Wer. Ah! 

The Hungarian! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No; I hid him in that very 

ConceaPd and fatal gallery. 



558 



WERNER. 



[ACT III 



Ulr. There I'll find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer, It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
^Vhich masks it: I but thought he had snatch'd 
And favorable moment to escape [the silent 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel? 

Wer. Yes; and not without reproach 
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr You are sure you closed it? 

Wer, Certain. 

Ulr. That's well; but had been better, if 

You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for 

\He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say; I must bear it, and deserve 
But not [it; 

Ulr. No, father; do not speak of this: 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man? 

Wer, Could I shun it? 

A man pursued by my chief foe; disgraced 
For my own crime : a victim to my safety. 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. 
It is too late to ponder this: you must [But 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 'tis possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the 
Moloch 
Suspicion: two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems ? W/io e\sQ 

Can be so? 

Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son I — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive? 

Wer. Boy! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime (though not o( suck crime), 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, [I, 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your 
heart [cuse 

Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to ac- 
Appearanccs; and views a criminal 



In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 'tis dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so, [knev 

What will mankind, who know you not, o 
But to oppress? You must not stand the hazard 
Away! I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fly! and leave my namt 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as 
To bear the brand of bloodshed? [poorest 

Ulr. Pshaw! leave anything 

Except our fathers' sovereignty and castles. 
For which you have so long panted, and ir 
vain! [you beai 

What na7)ie? You leave no navie^ since thai 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true: but still I would not have 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, [i! 

Though in this most obscure abode of men 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you 
As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein [here 

Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
A fool; his folly shall have such employment. 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'ei 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years. 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust. 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here, save as such — without lands, influence. 
Save what hath perish'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused: such is not here the case; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave. 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he'll have, or wants. If / discover 
The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me. 
None else; though all the full-fed train oj 

menials 
May howl above his ashes (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder), 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence! hence! I must not hear vour answer. — 

Look ! 
The stars are almost faded, and the grey 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer: — Pardon me that I 
Am peremptory; 'tis your son that speaks. 
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let's call m) 

mother! 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



559 



To me: I'll answer for the event as far 
As regards jv^«, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — 

Hence! 

And may your age be happy! — I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be 
with you! [able? 

Wer. This counsel's safe — but is it honor- 
Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honor. 

\Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Gothic Hall in the Castle of 
Siegendorf^ 7tear Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the 
Court. 

Eric. So, better times are come at last; to 
these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail, — both 
^ long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters^ 

t might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave: but as for 

wassail, 

VIethinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
rlis feudal hospitality as high 
\s e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

i^or the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
F'ared passing well; but as for merriment 
\nd sport, without which salt and sauces sea- 
rhe cheer but scantily, our sizings were [son 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel: are you sure that this does? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's 
And we all love him. [bounteous, 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
A.nd the first year of sovereigns is bridal: 
.\non, we shall perceive his real sway 
^nd moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray heaven he keep the present! 
Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a 
Pity the war's are o'er! [knight! 

Hen. Why so? 

Eric. Look on him! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 



Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said. 

The wars are over: in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a w^ell-supported pride, 
Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, 

gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the 

thicket? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knight- 
lier? 

Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind [war 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow-vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
As \^Pauses. 

Ei'ic. What? [ii^g- 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves liv- 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst chil- 
dren. 

Eric. Nonsense! they are all brave iron- 
Such as old Tilly loved. [visaged fellows. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly? 
Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either; — they are gone to 

Eric. Rest; 

But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. I wish they had left us something of 
their rest: 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who; they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more. 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric — - 

What has all this to do with him? 

Hen. With him ! 

He might prevent it. As you say, he's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those maraud - 

Eric^ You'd better ask himself. [ers? 

Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes. 

Hen. The devil! you'll hold your tongue? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale? 

Hen. 'Tis nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I mean nothing, a mere 
sport 



560 



IVERXER. 



[act IV. 



Of words, no more; besides, had it been other- 
He is to espouse the gentle Baroness [wise, 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress; 
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee 
On all that I have said. [peace. 

Enter Ulric aitd Rodolph. 

Good morrow, Count. | 

Uir. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric,! 
All ready for the chase? [isi 

Eric. The dogs are order'd, 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promis- ' 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite? [ing. 
What courser will you please to mount? 

Ulr, The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Monday: 'twas a noble chase: 
You spear'dy(9wr w^ith your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric; 

I had forgotten — let it be the grey, then. 
Old Ziska: he has not been out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How 
Of your immediate retainers shall [many 

Escort you? 

Ulr, I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord! 

Ulr. The news 

Is awkward from the 

[KoDOi^vn points to Henrick. 
How now, Henrick? why 
Loiter you here? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with me before 
I mount. [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'Tis rumor'd that the column sent against them 
Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Eod. Best wait for further and more sure 
advices. 

Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Eod. It will be difficult [er. 

To excuse your absence to the count, your fath- 

Ulr, Yes, but the unsettled state of our do- 
In high Silesia will permit and cover [main 



My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw ofi the eighty men 
Whom Wolffe leads — kecj-) the forests on your 
You kno^' it well? [route: 

Eod. As \\ell as on that night 

When we 

U/r. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success: 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg 
this letter. [ Gives a letter. 

Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries. 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Eod. I thought vou loved the ladv Ida? 

Ulr. ' ' Why, 

I do so — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years. 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
Although 'twere that of Venus : — but I love her. 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Eod. And constantly? 

Ulr. I think so; for I love 

Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 

Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 

W^e have to do ere long. Speed! speed! good 

Rodolph! 

Eod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf? 

Ulr. Perhaps my father wishes it; and sooth 
'Tis no bad policy; this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. A^dieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 
Until the chase begins; then draw thou off. 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 'twas a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not? 

Ulr. How should I know? 

Rod. I have heard it whisper 'd there was 
something strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



S6i 



Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words? 

Ulr, I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah, here's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

Ulr» You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

Ida. Not too early. 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me ** cousin "/ 

Ulr. \s7niling\. Are we not so? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name; me- 
thinks 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. [starting-]. Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks? 

07r. Ay, doth it? 

Ida. It doth — but no! it rushes like a torrent 
Even to your brow again. 

U/r. [recovering himself]. And if it fled 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet 

Ida. ** Cousin" again. [cousin! 

Ulr. Nay, then I'll call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would we 
Been aught of kindred! [had ne'er 

Ulr. [gloomily]. Would we never had! 

Ida. Oh heavens! and can j^« wish that! 

Ulr. Dearest Ida! 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said; but let me be 
Sister or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already; 

But I can >vait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed, I have none else left since my poor 
father — [She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view our happiness, 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed! 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you; for the brave ever love each other: 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known 

each other I 



Had such as you been near him on his journey. 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says that? 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumor, 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas! what is a menial to a death-bed. 
When the dim eyes roll vainly round for what 
It loves? — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say! 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where ? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see \\\%face ! 

Ida [looking at him]. No! Oh, my God! 
do you ? 

Ulr Why do you ask? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a mur- 
derer! [ness; your weakness 

Ulr. [agitatedly .] Ida, this is mere childish- 
Infects me to my shame: but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed! I have 

Full fifteen summers! [A bugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle! 

Ida. [peevishly to Rodolph]. Why need you 
tell him that? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Rod. You will n y., 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Vvs, or be 

No true knight. — Come,dear Ulric! yield to me 
In this, for this one day: the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not: — ask of Rodolph. 
36 



562 



WERXER, 



[act IV. 



Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour | 

You have changed more than e'er I saw you' 
In years. [change 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm the true chame- 
leon, 
And live but on the atmosphere; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 

Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies 

home. [not go! 

Ida. And will you not stay, then? You shall 
Come! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so, for I trust these wars are over. 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father,! salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard 
The vassals wait. [our bugle; 

Sieg. So let them. — You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt 

to follow 
The chase with such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg, No, Ulric: 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. \to Ida]. True, dear child, 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair dam- 
sel.— 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honors. 
Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
But most in ours, that ONE should be found 

wanting 

At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same 

moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country; 



And next, that we are here to share its bless- 
ings, [at once. 

Ulr. \aside.'\ Devout, too! Well, sir, I obey 
\Then aloud to a Servant]. Ludwig, dis- 
miss the train without! \Exit Ludwig, 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. [smiling]. You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself ? But fear not; thou shalt rule 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer, [him 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall. 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen! 
Ulric, you'll come and hear me? 

Ulr, By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your 
bugles; 

Then pray you be as punctual to its notes: 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's? 

Ida. Not that monster's! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with 

music, [quickly; 

Could aught of his sound on it; — but come 

Your mother will be eager to receive you. \^Exit. 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time's your vassal. — 
[Aside to Rodoli'H] . Rodolph, hence! and do 
As I directed: and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 

Rod. Count SiegendorfjCommand you aught? 
Upon a journey past the frontier. [I am bound 

Sieg. [starts]. Ah! — 

Where, on what frontier? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — [Aside to Ulric] — Where shall I 
say? 

Ulr. [aside to Rodolph]. To Hamburgh. 
[Aside to hints elf \ That 
Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. [agitated]. Hamburgh! No, I have 
nought to do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you! 

Rod. Fare ye well. Count Siegendorf! 

[Exit Rodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man who hasjust departed, is 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



563 



One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 

But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
Ulr, So they will do of most men. Even the 
monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander,or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain. 

The world speaks more than lightly of this 

Rodolph: 
They say he is leagued with the ** black bands " 
Ravage the frontier. [who still 

Ulr, And will you believe 

The world? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr^ In any case, 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence, 

Sieg, Son ! 

I understand you; you refer to but 

My Destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led 
Twenty long years of misery and famine [me: 
Quench'd them not — twenty thousand more, 

perchance, 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the 
May not obliterate or expiate dial) 

The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warnM by a father! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honor'd 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee? Beloved, when thou lovest me not! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for 

But if my son's is cold! [me — 

Ulr. Who dare say that? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see '\\.—feel it — 
keener 

Than would your adversary, who dared say so. 
Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling: how should it be so. 
After twelve years' divorcement from my 
parents? 



Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve 
torn years 
In a like absence? But 'tis vain to urge you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of high name. 
But dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true), with whom thou consortest, 
Will lead thee 

Ulr. [impatiently]. I'll be led hy no man. 

Sieg, Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope: at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — mor** 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, [not 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For glory's pillow is but restless, if 
Love lay not down his cheek there): some 

strong bias. 
Some master fiend is in thy service, to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave. 
And makes his every thought subservient; else 
Thou'dst say at once — ** I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her;" or, ** I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
W^ould I have answer'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg, Still 

Against your age and nature! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist! 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida? 

Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her? 

Sieg, As far 

As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness. 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint. 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter wisdom; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 



564 



WERNER, 



[act IV. 



A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to 

break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightin- 
According to the Orient tale. She is [S^^^* 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, 
your foe: 
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless; though, to say truth. 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In favor of such unions. 

Si€g. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would 

Sieg. Alas! Love never did so. [think twice. 

Ulr. Then 'tis time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps; till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent? 

Ulr. I did and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'Tis usual. 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not / 

For any woman; and as what I fix 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I'll give mine. 

Sieg. But 'tis your ofiice 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have? You have forbid my 

stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting- 
needles, [smiles. 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
W^hat can a son or man do more? 

\^Exit Ulric. 

Sieg. \solus\ Too much! — 

Too much of duty, and too little love! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side [not 

Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found 
him! [teous 

But how! — obedient, but with coldness; du- 



In my sight, but with carelessness; mysteri- 
ous — [absence, 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long 
And where — none know — in league with the 
most riotous [ice. 
Of our young nobles; though, to do him just- 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleas- 
ures; [cannot 
Yet there's some tie between them which I 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
Throng round him as a leader: but with me 
He hath no confidence! Ah! can I hope 't 
After — what! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood? or — Oh! if it should be! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these 
walls [not. 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew 
Unlatched the door of death for thee? 'Twas 

not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
And yet 1 spared thee when my own destruc- 
tion [ing! 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awaken- 
And.only took — Accursed gold! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee; thou camest in such a 

guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Thou villainous gold! and thy dead master's 

doom. 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine.' 

Enter an Attendant. 
Atten. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 

Enter the PRIOR Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them. 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father! 
And may thy prayer be heard! — all men have 
Of such, and I [need 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



565 



"Where there is everlasting wail and woe, | 

Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire- 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not! ' 

Sieg. True, father: and to avert those pangs; 
from one, I 

Who, though of our most faultless holy church, | 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices, | 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial j 
I have to offer humbly this donation [pains, | 
In masses for his spirit. i 

[SlEGENDORF offers the gold which he had 
taken from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Which has of old endow'd it; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said? 

Sieg. [faltering^. For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name? 

Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret! I have none: but, father, he 
who's gone 
Might have one; or,in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
P'or pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who's gone was not my friend. 
The deadliest and the stanchest. [but foe, 

Prior, ' Better still! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those [souls 
Who can forgive them living. 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive thi's man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too! 

Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no 
legacy. [that he 

Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure. 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars; 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 

Prior, Is there no blood upon it? 



Sieg. No; but there's worse than blood — 
eternal shame! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 

Sieg. Alas! 

He did. 

Prior, Son! you relapse into revenge, 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in 
blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed,not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' 

the dark. 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat! — Ay! you may look upon me! 
/ am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that 
As I can one day God's. [point, 

Prior. Nor did he die 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours? 

Sieg. No! by the God who sees and strikes! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one. 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's know- 
I never saw the man who was suspected, [ledge, 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieg. [eagerly.^ Oh I ami? — say! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieg. Father! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the 
Yet say I am not guilty! for the blood [who/e ; 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human 

blood, 
I did not! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self- 
Be e'er excusable in such defences [safety 
Against the attacks of over-potent foes) : 
But pray for him, for me, and all my nouse; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me. 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for 
Father! I have pray'd myself in vain. [me, 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so, 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. ' 
Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles. 
As well as your brave son; and smooth your 
Nor in the general orison of thanks [aspect, 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not ris^ 



566 



WERNER, 



[act v. 



A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

\^Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — A large and magnificent Gothic\^ 

Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf ^ decorated"^ 

with Trophies y Banner Sj and Arms of that\ 

family. | 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendants of\ 

Count Siegendorf. j 

Am. Be quick! the count will soon return: 

the ladies | 

Already are at the portal. Have you sent j 

The messengers in search of him he seeks for? 

Meis. I have, in all directions, over Prague,; 

As far as the man's dress and figure could | 

By your description track him. The devil take j 

These revels and processions ! All the pleasure i 

(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 

I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Arn. Go to! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, | 

Than follow in the train of a great man, j 

In these dull pageantries. j 

Arn. Begone! and rail | 

Within. \^Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf 

and Ida Stralenheim. 

Jos^ Well, Heaven be praised! the show is 

over. [dreamt 

Ida. How can you say so? Never have I 

Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 

The banners, and the nobles, and the knights. 

The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy 

faces. 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even 

the tombs. 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns. 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from 
heaven [peal 

Than mounted there. The bursting organ's 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world 
At i)eace! and all at peace with one another! 
Oh, my sweet mother! 

[Embracing JOSEPHINE. 
Jos. My beloved child! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Ida. Oh! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart l)eats! 

Jos, It does, my love; and never may it 
With aught more bitter, [throb 



Ida. Never shall it do so! 

How should it? What should make us grieve? 

I hate 
To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child! 

Ida. Do you pity me? 

yos. No: I but envy, 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida, I'll not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
Aught like him? How he tower'd amongst 
them all! [faster — 

How all eyes follow'd him! The flowers fell 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest; and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 
If he should hear you. 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

yos. W^hy so? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts ^him into words to him: 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

yos. How so? 

Ida, A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes sud- 
Yet he says nothing. [deniy, 

yos. It is nothing: all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

yos. Yet there are other men. 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for in- 
stance, [withdrew 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him. 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept? and yet me- 
thought, [and warm. 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick 
I saw him smiling on me. 

yos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were 
Together with the people's. [raised, 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

yos. Come, 

l>ct us retire; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 



SCENE 1.1 



WERNER, 



567 



Aside these nodding plumes and dragging 
trains. 
Ida, And, above all, these stiff and heavy 
jewels, [throb 

Which make my head and heart ache, as both 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with you. 

Enter CoUNT SlEGENDORF, in full dress, from 
the solemnity, and Ludwig. 

Sieg. Is he not found? 

Lud. Strict search is making everywhere, 
and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg, Where's Ulric? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles; but he left them 
And, if I err not, not a minute since [soon; 
I heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 

Sieg. [/(? LudwigJ. See, they cease not 
Their quest of him I have described. 

\_Exit Lud WIG. 
Oh, Ulric! 
How have I longed for thee! 

Ulr. Your wish is granted — 

Behold me! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom? Where? 

Sieg. The Hungarian,who slewStralenheim. 

Ulr, You dream. 

Sieg, I live! and as I live, I saw him — 
Heard him! he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name? 

Sieg, Werner! Uwas mine. 

Ulr, It must be so 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. Never! never! all 

My destinies were woven in that name; 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. ' To the point the Hungarian? 

Sieg. Listen! — The church was throng'd; 
the hymn was raised; 
" Te Deum " peal'd from nations rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of ** God be 
praised" [years, 

For one day's peace after thrice ten dread 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw 
A moment and no more), what struck me 

sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian's face! I grew 



Sick: and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg, When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge. 
The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide below. 
The decorated street, the long array. 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings 
round, [could not 

The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all 
Chase this man from my mind, although my 
No longer held him palpable. [senses 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man; 
But still I saw him not; but in his stead 

Ulr. What in his stead? 

Sieg. My eye forever fell 

Upon your dancing crest: the loftiest. 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head. 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes. 
Which overflow'd the glittering streets of 
Prague. 

Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian? 

Sieg. Much; for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my car 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word— 

Ulr. Utter'd by [** Werner!'' 

Sieg. Him! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 

Ulr. And wherefore? were you seen? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around medragg'dme from the spot. 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their chil- 
To aid me [dren) 

Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 

Sieg, In what? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When 

What shall we do with him? [he's found, 

Sieg. I know not that. 

Ulr, Then wherefore seek? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted! nor can be , 

Unravell'd, till 



568 



WERNER, 



[act v. 



Enter an ATTENDANT. 

Atten. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Si eg. \Vho? 

Atten. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[T'/^^' Attendant introduces Gabor, and 
afterwards exit. 

Ah! 

Gab. 'Tis then Werner! 

Sieg. [haughtily]. The same you knew, sir, 
by that name; Tind you! 

Gab. [looking round \. I recognize you both : 

father and son, [yours, 

It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or 

Have lately been in search of me: I am here. 

Sieg. 1 have sought you, and have found 
you : you are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you wliy) with such 
A crime as [lie pauses. 

Gad. Give it utterance, and then 

I'll meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men: the universal rumor — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the 

time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on 7ne only? 

Pause ere you answer: is no other name, 
Save mine, stain'd in this business? 

Sieg. Trifling villain! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt! Of all that 

breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy 

bloody slander. 
Hut I will talk no further with a wretch. 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'Tis false! 

Sieg. Who says so? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it? 

Gab, By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Si£g. Name him. 

Gab. He 

May have more names than one. Your lord- 
Once on a time. [ship had so 

Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safetv; 

I know the assassin. 



Sie^. Where is he? 

Gab. [pointing to Ulric]. Beside you! 
[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor ; 
SlEGENDORF interposes. [slain; 

Sieg. Liar and fiend! but you shall not be 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within 
them. [He turns to Ulric. 

Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it as a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born: but be calm; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose himsclj. 

Gab. Look at hiin, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. [first to Gabor, and then looking at 

UlricJ. I hear thee. 

Mv God! you look 

'Ulr. How? 

Sieg. As on that dread night, 

When we met in the garden. 

Clr. [composes himself \. It is nothing. 
Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I 
came hither [down 

Not seeking you, but sought. W^hen I knelt 
Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 
To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes; but you have call'd 
And we have met. [me, 

Sieg. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire, who profited [ever; 

By Stralenheim's death? Was't I — as poor as 
And poorer by suspicion on my name! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 
Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach 
To me than to my son. [no less 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
1 speak to you. Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me? 
Dare you command me? 

[SlEGENDORF first looks at the Hungarian, 

and then at Ulric, w//^ has unbuckled 

his sabre y and is drawing lines with it 

on the fioor — still in its sheath, 

Ulr. [looks at his father and says]. Let the 

man go on! 
Gab. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay 
His sabre. [dovsn 

L'lr. [ofi'ers it to him contemptuously]. Take 

it. 
(/'ab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

Jhai wcarc boil) unarnj'd-— J would not choose 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



569 



To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than eame there in battle. 

67r. \casts the sabre from him in contei}ipt\. 
It — or some 
Such other weapon, in my hand — spared yours 
Once, when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

Gab. True — 

I have not forgotten it: you spared me for 
Vour own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater, 
But is it of my father to hear further.^ 

\To SlEGENDORF. 

Sieg. [takes his son by the hana\. My son, I 
know my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man pa- 
Let him continue. [tience; 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much: I began [me. 
I.i-fe early — and am what the world has made 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force, 
Sent by the state, and after strong resistance, 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. — They 
However, not to be so — but banditti, [proved, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many amongst them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers. 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate 
I know no more. 

Sieg. And what is this to Ulric? 

Gab. Amongst them there was said t j be 
one man [tune. 

Of wonderful endowments: — birth and for- 
V'outh, strength, and beauty, almost super- 
human, 
And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumor; and his sway, 
Not only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcrafi. 
Such was his influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deemed him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Sieg. And did you so. ^ 

Gab, You'll hear. Chance favor'd me ; 



A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces: 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
'*This is the man I" though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and 

nearly; 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Stature, and bearing — ana amidst them all, 
'Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. \smili7ig\. The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He appear'd 
to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends, 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend; besides, 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was wrong. 

Sieg. And may not be right now. 

Gab. I follow'd him, 

Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
Though not his friendship: — it was his inten- 
To leave the city privately — we left it [tion 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succor'd Now we are 

The verge — dare you hear further? [on 

Sieg. I must do so — 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind. 
In the most high of worldly rank; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags; I would have 
shared [fused it. 

My purse, though slender, w ith you — you re- 

Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that; and I owed you my safety. 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That /had robb'd him. 

Sieg. I conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign — reviv- 
ing viper! 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge; 
Your hall's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be* just, and /"ll be merciful! 



570 



WERNER, 



[ACT 



Sieg, You merciful! 

You! Base calumniator! 

Gal). I. 'Twill re3t 

With me at last to be so You conceal'd aie — 
In secret passages known to yourself, 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light: 
I followed It, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first un- 
done 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through, and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim! — 

Sieg. Asleep! and yet 

You slew him! — Wretch! 

Gab. He was already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone? 

You saw none else.> You did not see the 

\He pauses frovi agitation. 

Gal). No, 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. [guiltless still — 

Sieg. [to Ulric]. Then, my boy! thou art 
Thou bad'st me say /was so once — Oh! now 
Do thou as much! 

Gad. Be patient ! I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were 

changed 
Beneath Ais chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night; how he had 

enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechamber, 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh! God of fathers! 

Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count 
Ulricas! [sion 

Distinct as 1 beheld them, though the expres 
[s not now what it then was! — but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime — so 

Sieg. This is so [lately 

Gab. [interrupting /tim\. Nay — but hear 
me to the end! 
Alow you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Jietray'd by you and /lifu (for now I saw 



There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt; and my first thought 
Was Vengeance: but, though armed with a 

short poniard 
(Having left my sword without),! was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. [than 
I turn'd and fled — i' the dark: chance rather 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept; if I 
Had found you wakings Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have 

prompted; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such 
brief sleep, 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me? I dreamt of my 
And now my dream is out. [father — 

Gab. 'Tis not my fault, 

If I have read it. — Well! I fled, and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons— 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign! 
You sought me and have found me — now you 
My secret, and may weigh its worth, [know 

Sieg. [after a pause]. Indeed! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once : — When you were poor, and I, though 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty [poor, 
As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it: — I'll be 

franker 
With you: you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial powers — you understand me? 

Sieg. Yes. — 

Gab. Not quite. You think mc venal, and 
scarce true: 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid 
I would have aided you — and also have [me ; 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have 
said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few 
Deliberation? [minutes' 

Gab. [casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning 
against a pillar]. If I should do so? 

Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw 
into 
Thii tower, [^Opens a turret door. 



SCENE I.] 



WERNER. 



571 



Gab. \hesUatingly\. This is the second j<2/> 
You have oflfer'd me. [asylum 

Sieg. And was not the first so? 

Gab. I know not that even now — but will 
approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision! 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

Gab. I'll take it for so much. 

Sieg. \J>oinis to Ulric's sabre ^ still upon the 
ground]. Take also that — 

I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. [takes up the sabre~\. I will; and so 
To sell my life — not cheaply. [provide 

[Gkbok goes into the turret f which Siegen- 
DORF closes. [Ulric! 

Sieg. [advances to Ulric]. Now, Count 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou? 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster! 

Ulr. Most true, father! 

And you did well to listen to it: what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains; 
And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villainy. 

Ulr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story's true; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
As never to have hit on this before? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death? Or had the prince's household been 
Then summ'on'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way? Or could you, 

Werner, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears. 
Have fled — unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke? I sought and fathom'd you. 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter: and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide! no less 

Than common stabber! What deed of my life. 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me 
For your accomplice? [fir' 



Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While jv^« were tortured, 
Could / be calm? Think you that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling? — You 
Have taught me feeling for ^(7« and myself? 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it? 
Sieg. Oh! my dead father's curse ! 'tis work- 
ing now. [down! 
Ulr. Let it work on! the grave will keep it 
Ashes are feeble foes: it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole, [you. 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath 
Yet hear me still! — \{ you condemn me, yet 
Remember who hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him! Who proclaim'd to me 
That there were crimes made venial by the 

occasion? 
That passion was our nature? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune? 
Who show'd me his humanity secured 
By his nerves only? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself — a felon's brand! The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 
He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should act what you could think? We 
have done [ponder 

With right and wrong: and now must only 
Upon eff"ects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown, 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I 
slew [He 

Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through. 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
His lift: when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
The torch — you show'd the path: now trace 
Of safety — or let me! [me that 

Sieg. I have done with life! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which can- 
kers life — 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide: I know no fear. 
And have within these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture 
all things, [here 

You stand high with the state; what passes 
Will not excite her too great curiosity; 



572 



IVERXER. 



[AC! 



Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not: — leave the rest tome: 
We must have no third babblers thrust be- 
tween us. \^Exit Ulric. 
Sieg. \solus\. Am I awake? are these my 
father's halls! [ever 
And yoti — my son ! My son ! vivie ! who have 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both I 
I must be speedy, or more will be sned — 
The Hungarian's! Ulric — he hath partisans. 
It seems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh, 

fool! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes — no less 
Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor! Gabor! 
\^Exitinto the turret y closing the door after hini. 

Scene II. — The Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf. 
Gab. Who calls? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf! Take these and fly! 
Lose not a moment! 

[ Tears off a diamond star andother jewels ^ 
and thrusts the?n into Gabor's hand. 
Gab. What am I to do 

With these? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
And prosper; but delay not, or you are lost! 
Gab. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 
Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me! Fly! 

Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so? 

Farewell, then! Recollect, however. Count, 
You sought this fatal interview! 

Sieg. I did: 

Let it not be more fatal still! — Begone! 
Gab. By the same path I enter'd? 
Sieg. Yes; that's safe slill; 

But loiter not in Prague; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhaj^py sire! 

Farewell! [A>?/ Gabor. 

Sieg. [solus and liste)mig'\. He hath clear'd 

the staircase. Ah! I hear 

The door sound loud behind him! He is safe! 

ijafe! — oh, my father's spirit! — lam faint 

\IIe leans down upon a stone scat^ near 
the wall of the tozurr^ in a dnufing 
posture. 



Enter Ulric, 7vith others armed, and with 
weapons drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch! — he's there. 

Lud. The count, my lord! 

Ulr. [;'^^^^A//22>/^ Siegendorf] . K<7«here, 
sir! 

Sieg. Yes; if you want another victim, strike! 

Ulr. [seeing hiv I stript of his jewels\. Where 
is the ruffian who hath plunder'd you? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see 
'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stript my 
father [loom ! 

Of jewels which might form a prince's heir- 
Away! I'll follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all hut SIEGENDORF and Ulric. 

What's this? 
Where is the villain? 

Sieg. There are two, sir: which 

Are you in quest of? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this: he must be found. You have not let 
Escape? [him 

Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop! I command — entreat — implore! 
Will you then leave me? [Oh, Ulric! i 

Ulr. What ! remain to be . 

Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains; and i 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, [all 
Selfish remorse, and temporizing pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wTetch to profit by our ruin! No, count. 
Henceforth you have no son! 

Sieg. I never had one; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless 

name! 
Where will you go? I would not send you 
W^ithout protection. [forth 

Ulr, Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains; a thousand, ay, ten thous- 
Swords, hearts, and hands are mine. [and 

Sieg. The foresters 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at 

Frankfort! [name! Go tell 

Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the 
Your senators that they look well to Prague; 
Tlicir feast of peace was early for the times; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been '■ 
With Wallenstein! [laid 

Fmter JoSEiMilXE and Ida. 

yo.<. WIkU i^'t we hear? My Siegendorf! 
Thanis Heaven, I see you safe! 



SCENE I.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



573 



Sieg. Safe! 

Ida. Yes, dear father! 

Sieg, No, no; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord? 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon! 

Ida. [taking Ulric's ha7id\. Who shall dare 
say this of Ulric? 

Sieg, Ida, beware! there's blood upon that 
hand. [it were mine. 

Ida. [stooping lo kiss it]. I'd kiss it off,though 



Sieg. It is so! 

Ul7-. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 
Ida. Oh, Great God! 

And I have loved this man! 

[lu\ falls senseless — JOSEPHINE stands 
speechless with horror. 
Sieg. The wretch has slain 

Them both! — My Josephine! we are now 

alone! 
Would we had ever been so! — All is over 
For me! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine! — The race of Siegendorf is past! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 

A DRAMA. 

J824. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This production is founded partly on the story of a novel called " The Three Brothers," published many years 
a^o, from which M. G. Lewis's " Wood Demon " was also taken ; and partly on the " Faust " of the great 
Goethe. The present publication contains the two first parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. The real 
may, perhaps, appear hereafter. 



Stranger, afterwards C.^:sar 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Cellini 



Bertha. 
Olimpia. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants, ^c. 



PART I. 

Scene I. — A Forest. 

Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback! 

Am. I was born so, mother! 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven 
The sole abortion! [sons, 

Am, Would that I had been so. 

And never seen the light! 

Bert. I would so too! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy 

best! 
That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 



' A7'n. It dears its burthen; — but, my heart! 

Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
And gather wood! 

Am. I will : but when I bring it. 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me; 
Our milk has been the same. 



574 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



[part 1. 



Bert, As is the hedgehog's, 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome 

dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not 
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out! 

{Exit Bertha. 
Am, \solii5\. Oh, mother! She is gone, 

and I must do 
Her bidding; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do? 

[Arnold begins te cut wood : in doing this 
he wounds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast; 
For double curses will be my meed now [kin. 
At home — What home? I have no home, no 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I 

bleed, too, [earth 

Like them? Oh, that each drop which falls to 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have 

stung me! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me. 
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power? Is it because 
I have not his will too? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a springy and stoops to 

wash his hands : he starts back. 

They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me 

What she hath made me. I will not look on it 

Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous 

wretch 
That I am! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. [He pauses. 

And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life! Thou blood. 
Which flow'st so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes forever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms! 
This knife! now let me prove if it will sever 
Thii wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 



Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground ^ 
with the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
iOn the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
! Myself,and the sweet sun which warm'd me, but 
i In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented: 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell: 
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall! 
[As he rushes to throw hiviself upon the 
knifCy his eye is suddenly caught by the 
fountain^ which seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve? 
No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir. 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
Wliat's here? A mist! No more? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He 
stands gazing upon it: it is dispelled, and 
a tall blcuk man comes towards him. 
Arn, What would you? Speak! 

Spirit or man! 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one? 

Arn, Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that [me 

Which is so call'd or thought, that you may add 
To which you please, without much wrong to 

either. 
But come: you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Arn. You have interrupted me.' 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made 
Mine, and forever, by your suicide; [you 

And yet my coming saves you. 

Arn, I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such 

high 
Society), you can't tell how he approaches; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Looks likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Arn, Do you — dare ^i?ii 

To taunt mc with my born deformity? 



SCENE I.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



575 



Stran, \Yere I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more 
In action and endurance than thyself, [mighty 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural; 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

A7"n. Give me the strength then of the 
buffalo's foot, 
W^hen he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary! — and I'll bear 
The fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Arn^ [with surprise^. Thou canst ? 

Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else? 

Am. Thou mockest me, 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking? That's poor sport, 

methinks, 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year [with 
Their walls, to fill their household cauldrons 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at 
New / can mock the mightiest. [thee, — 

Am. Then waste not 

Thy time on me: I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I'm not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 

Am. What wilt thou do for me? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks 
Or form you t'o your wish in any shape. [you; 

Am. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I'll show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and 
Thy choice. [give thee 

Am. On what condition? 

Stran. There's a question! 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am, No; I will not, 

I must not compiomise my soul. 

Stran. What soul. 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a car- 
cass? 



Am. 'Tis an aspiring one, whatever the 
tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your 
Must it be sign'd in blood? [compact: 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Am. Whose blood then? 
Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no 

bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content? 

Am. I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now, then! 

[The Stra'SGY.r approaches the fountain ^ 
and turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 
Am. For what? 

Stran. To mmgle with the magic of the 
And make the charm effective. [waters, 

Am. [holding out his wounded arr}i\. Take 
it all. [for this. 

Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice 
[The Stranger takes some of Arnold's 
blood in his handj and casts it int$ the 
fountain. 
Shadows of beauty! 

Shadows of power! 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.* 
Come as ye were, 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould, ^ 

Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd; — 
Such his desire is, [Pointing to Ar- 
Such my command! [nold. 

Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor. 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman picture. 
Who breathed to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty! 

Shadows of power! 
Up to your duty — 
This is the hour! 



• This is a well-known German superstition— a gigan* 
tic shadow produced by reflection on the Brpcken. 



576 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part 1. 



[ Various phantoms ai-isefrom the waters ^ 
and pass in successioji before the STRAN- 
GER ^«^ Arnold. 

Arn. What do I see? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which 
Keheld a conqueror, or look'd along [ne'er 

The land he made not Rome's, while Rome 

became 
His, and all those who heir'd his very name. 

Arn. The phantom's bald; my quest is 
beauty. Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects. 

Stran, His brow was girt with laurels more 
than hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form: his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for, 

Arti. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to 
please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother. 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so! Shadow, pass on! 

\The phanto77i ^Julius Cje^kr disappears. 

Ar7i. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
J^nd left no footstep? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory' ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crook'd 
1' the sun. Behold another! 

[A seeond phantom passes. 

Am. Who is he? 

Strait. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful! 

Stran. Such was the curled son of Cinias; — 
Wouldst thou 
Invest thee with his form? 

Arn. Would that I had 

Been born with it! But since I may choose 
I will look further. [further 

[7he shade ^Alcibiades disappears. 

Stran. Lo! behold again! 

Arn. W^hat!that low, swarthy, short-nosed, 
round eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect. 
The splay feet and low stature! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

StraH. And yet he was 



The earth's perfection of all mental beauty. 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him? 

Arn. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem'd it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that: but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Arn. No. I was not born for philosophy. 
Though I have that about me which has need 
Let him fleet on. [on't. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker! 

J[The shadoiu of Socrates disappears : 
another rises. 

Arn. What's here? whose broad brow and 
whose curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest. 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Arn. I cannot blame him. 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 

Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am 
difficult. 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir, 

Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 

[ The shade of Antony disappears ; another 
rises. 

Am. Who is this? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, [stature, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
W^hich he wears as the sun his rays — a some- 
thing 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flash- 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still, [ing 
Was he e^er human only? 

Stran. Let the earth speak. 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Arn. Who was this glory of mankind? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Oreece in peace, her thunderbolt in war- 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Arn, Yet one shadow more. 



SCENE I.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



sn 



Sir an, [addressing the shado'w\. Get thee to 

Lamia's lap! 
\The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes 
vanishes; another rises. 

I'll fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback; if the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Am. Content! I will fix here. 

Stran, I must commend 

Your choice. The god-like son of the sea- 
goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks I 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold j 
And hivL — as he stood by Polixena, [them! 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride : 

With some remorse within for Hector slain \ 
And Priam weeping, mingled w4th deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young! 
hand ! 

Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple! Look upon him as , 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the in-i 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. [stant 

Am. I gaze upon him \ 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon , 
Envelope mine. 

Stran, You have done well. The greatest 
Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Am. Come! Be quick! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You both see what is not. 
But dream it is what must be. 

Arn. Must I wait? 

Stran. No; that were a pity. But a w^ord 
or two : 
His stature is twelve cubits; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 

Arn. Why not? 

Stran. Glorious ambition! 

I love thee most in dwarfs! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David: 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged. 
If such be thy desire: and yet, by being 



A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth; and their cursed en- 
gines. 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armor there, with great- 
er ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the 
thing thou seest, 

And strong as what it was, and 

Arn. I ask not 

For valor, since deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first, [tune. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of for- 
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win 
them. [wilt remain 

Stran. Well spoken! and thou doubtless 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it. 

Arn. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly. 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a moun- 
tain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
A hateful and unsightly molehill to [look'd 
The eyes of happier men. I would have 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but despair; nor souglitto win. 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love 
In turn, because of this vile, crooked clog, [me 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have 

borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort [her. 
Of shape: — my dam beheld my shape was 

hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus the lowest, 
37 



b/^ 



THE DEFORMED TRAXSFORMED. 



[part I. 



Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made he- 
roes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Strati. Decide between 

\Vhat you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my 
And sweeter to my heart. As lam now, [eyes, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be loved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste! haste! 

Stran. And what shall / wear? 

Am. Surely, he 

Who can command all forms will choose the 

highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his [er — 
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still high- 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me* 

For I, too, love a change. 

Ar7i. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with 
But I have worn it long enough of late, [fear; 
And now I'll take your figure. 

Am. Mine! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with 

Bertha, [tastes; 

Your mother's offspring. People have their 

You have yours — I mine. 

Am. Despatch! Despatch! 

Stran. Even so. 

\^The Stranger takes some earth and 
moulds it along the turf, and then 
addresses the phantom ^Achilles. 

Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis' boy! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy! 
From the red earth, like Adam,* 

Thy likeness I shape. 



*Adam means 
was formtd. 



' red earth," from which the first man 



As the being who made him 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes! 
And thou, sunshiny water, 

Of blood take the guise! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 

Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows 

As thou wavest in air! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest. 

And drank the best dew! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me. 

And leap to my word! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation! 
'Tis done! He hath taken 

His stand in creation! 

[Arnold falls senseless ; his soul passes 
into the shape of A.CYil'LL^Sy which rises 
from thegroufid ; while the phantom has 
disappeared, part by part, as the figure 
was formed from the earth. 

Am. [in his new forni]. I love, and I shall 
be beloved! Oh, life! 
At last I feel thee! Glorious spirit! 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandon'd gar- 
ment. 
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
Which late you wore, or were? 

Am. Who cares? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran, And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Arn. Let us but leave it there; 

No matter what becomes on't. 
^ Stran, That's ungracious, 



SCENE I.J 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



m 



If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 

It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 

Arn, Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
Sir an. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men. 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of ihe original workmanship: — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 

Am. Who would do so? 

St ran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must. 

Am. You! 

Stran, I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself forever by you, as your shadow. 
Am. I would be spared this. 
Stran. But it cannot be. 

W^hat! shrink already, being what you are. 
From seeing what you were? 

Arn. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. [to the late form ^yARNOLD extended 
on the earth\ . 
Clay! not dead, but soulless! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire! ivithout \i\\\Qh nought can live; 
Fire! but in which nought can live. 
Save the fabled salamander. 
Or immortal souls which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive. 
Howling for a drop of water. 

Burning in a quenchless lot: 
Fire! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm. 

Save the worm which dieth not. 
Can preserve a moment's form. 
But must with thyself be blent: 
Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire! Creation's first-born daughter. 
And Destruction's threaten'd son, 
When heaven with«the world hath done : 
Fire! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold! 
His resurrection rests with me and you! 



One little, marshy spark of flame— 
And he again shall seem the same; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold! 
\An ignis fatuus Jlits through the wood^ 
and rests on the brow of the body. 71u 
Stranger disappears ; the body rises. 

Arn. [in his new form]. Oh! horrible! 

Stran, [in Arnold's late shape]. What! 
tremblest thou? 

Arn. Not so — 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt 

Arn. Must thou be my companion? [thou? 

Stran. Wherefore not? 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Arn, My betters ! 

Stran. Oh! You wax proud, I see, of your 
new form: 
I'm glad of that. U ngrateful too ! That's well ; 
You improve apace; — two changes in an in- 
stant. 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me : indeed you'll find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant? 

Arn. Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran, That's to say, where there is war 
And woman in activity. Let's see! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, [now 
There is small choice: the whole race are just 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

Arn. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice — 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along [scion 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Arn. How 

Shall we proceed? 

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 
What, ho! my chargers! Never yet were bet- 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. [ter. 
Our pages too! 

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses, 

Arn, A noble sight! 

Stran, And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these! 

Arn, The mighty steam, which volumes high 



sSo 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



TART I. 



From their proud nostrils, burns the very air;! 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, 
wheel I 

Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. | 

Sir an. Mount, my lord: 

They and I are your servitors. 

Arn. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their 
Stran. You shall baptize them. [names? 
Arn. What! in holy water? 

Stran. Why not? The deeper sinner, better 
saint. [demons. 

Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be 
Stran. True; the devil's always ugly; and 
Is never diabolical. [your beauty 

Arn. I'll call him [bright 

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such 
And blooming aspect, Htion ; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles 
But looks as serious though serene as night, not, 
He shall be Memnony from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you? 

Stran, I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes: but as I wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Arn. More human than the shape (though it 
I trust. [was mine once) 

Stran. Then call me Caesar. 
Arn. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me. 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Arn. Well, then 

Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

CcBS. We'll add a title— 

** Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound, 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field, 
CcEs. \sings\. To horse! to horse! my coal- 
black steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air! 
There's not a foal of Arab's breed 

More knows whom he must bear; 
On the hill he will not tire. 
Swifter as it waxes higher; 
In the marsh he will not slacken. 
On the plain be overtaken; 
In the wave he will not sink. 
Nor pause at the brook's side to drink; 
In the race he will not pant. 



In the combat he'll not faint; 

On the stones he will not stumble. 

Time nor toil shall make him humble; 

In the stall he will not stiffen. 

But be winged as a griffin, 

Only flying with his feet; 

And will not such a voyage be sweet? 

Merrily! merrily! never unsound. 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over 
the ground! 
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly! 
For we'll leave them behind in the glance ol 

an eye. 

[ They mount their horses , and disappear. 

Scene II. — A Camp before the walls of Rome. 
Arnold a7id C^sar. 

CcES. You are well enter'd now. 

Arn. Ay; but my path 

Has been o'er carcases; mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Ccns. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why! 
Thou art a conqueror; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France: and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world. 

Arn. How old? What! are there 

New worlds? 

Cces. To you. You'll find there are such 
shortly. 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold; 
From one-Z/iz^of the world nsuned a. whole new 
Because you know no better than the dull [one. 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Am. I'll trust them. 

Ciss. Do! They will deceive you sweetly. 
And that is better than the bitter truth. 

Arn. Dog! 

Go's. Man ! 

Arn. Devil! 

C(vs. Your obedient humble servant. 

Arn. Say ?/iaster rather. Thou hast lured 
me on. 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

CiTS. And where wouldst thoti be? 

Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace. 

Ctrs. And where is that which is so? From 
the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion; and 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its 
Living upon the death of other things, [way, 



SCENE II.] 



THE DEFOJ^MED TRANSFORMED. 



581 



But still, like them, must live and die, the 

subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity; against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

.[r7i. And when it prospers 

Cixs. 'Tis no rebellion. 

Ar7t. Will it prosper now? 

Cces. The Bourbon hath given orders for the 
And by the dawn there will be work, [assault, 

Atu. Alas! 

And shall the city yield? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the 

cross, 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy (as once of torture unto him, [uge). 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only ref- 

Cccs. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am, What? 

Cces. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls. 
And harquebusses, and what not: besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am, And those scarce mortal arches. 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena (as right well they might, 
When they had left no human foe uncon- 

quer'd) ; 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
P'or a sole'instant's pastime, and ** Pass on 
To a new gladiator! " — Must it fall? 

C(ES. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
The church, or one, or all? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Arn, To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cces, Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and per- 
More beautifully, than he did on Rome [haps 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

C(ES, I saw him. 

Arn, You I 



Cas, Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 
Spirit, till I took up with your CAst shape, 
And a worse name. I'm Csesar and a hunch- 
back [head, 
Now. Well! the first of Caesara was a bald. 
And loved his laurels better as 2^ wig 
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
[The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
1 saw your Romulus (simple as I am) [womb, 
Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same 
Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be); and Rome's earliest 

cement 
Was brother's blood; and if its native blood 
' Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
!As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
JThe deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
I Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of 
For ages. [slaughter 

Arn. But what have these done, their far 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace. 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety? 

Cces. And what had M^^ done,whom the old 
Romans o'erswept? — Hark! 

Arn. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cces. And why should they not sing as well 
They are black ones, to be sure, [as swans? 
Arn. So, you arelearn'd, 

I see, too? 

Cces. In my grammar, certes. I 
Was educated for a monk of all times, 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 

Arn. And wherefore do you not? 

Cces, It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
iAnd prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
1 Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
• More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
JThe stammering young ones of the flood's dull 
I ooze, [marr)', 

Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why. 
Because no man could understand his neighbor. 
I They are wiser now, and will not separate 
jFor nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
I Cabala; their best brick-work, wherewithal 

They build more [ing sneerer! 

Arn. {interrupting hini\. Oh, thoueverlast- 
Be silent! How the soldier's rough strain 
i seems 



582 



THE DEFORMED I'KAXSFOKMED. 



[part I. 



Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence! 
Listen! 

Cics. Ves. I have heard the angels sing. 
Am, And demons howl. 
CcES. And man, too. Let us listen: 

I love all music. 

Song of the Soldiers iviihin. 
The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow; 
With Bourbon, the rover. 

They pass'd the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king, 
We have turn'd back on no men, 

And so let us sing! 
Here's the Bourbon forever! 

Though penniless all. 
We'll have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we'll gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall: on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot. 
Our shout shall grow gladder. 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome? 
Up! up with the lily! 

And down with the keys! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly. 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red. 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon! 

The Bourbon for aye! 
Of our song bear the burden! 

And fire, fire away! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat C/ermany's drums; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother; 
But our leader from France is. 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon! 

Sans country or home. 
We'll follow the Bourbon 
To phmdci old Rome. 
''n>. An iiulilYerent sotic^ 

\<n tlio-sc wilhiri the waii^, iiictliini.b, l<> hear, 



Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But 
here comes 
The general with his chiefs and men jf trust, 
A goodly rebel!* 
Enter the Constable BOURBOX '• cum suts^^ 

Phil. How now, noble prince. 

You are not cheerful? 

Bourb. Why should I be so? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls 
of adamant, 
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artiller)'. 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of 
fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the 

gods 

Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans; — 
But now [mortals. 

Phil. They are but men who war with 

Bourb. True; but those walls have girded 
in great ages. 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy 
And beckon me away! [hands, 

Phil. So let them! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could 
have faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace; but they clasp, 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike 

hands. 

And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight; they wisely keep below, 
Shelter'd by the grey parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be 
Be so. [seen 

* The Constable de Bourbon being persecuted by the 
nother of Francis I. because he declined accepting her 
jand in marriage, tamed rebel and transferrca his ser- 
vices to the Etnpcror Charles V. 



SCENE II. J 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



583 



Bourb. A thousand years have manned the 

walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Ceesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be 
greater! 

Bourb. True: so I will, or perish. 

Phil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day than death. 

[ Count Arnold and C^sar advance. 

C(ss. And the mere men — do they too sweat 
beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory? 

Bourb. Ah! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback! and his mas- 
ter, [ous, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beaute- 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Cces. You will find. 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a la- 
More forward, hunchback! [borer 

Cces. You may well say so, 

Y ox you have seen that back — as general 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That's a fair retort, 

For I provoked it: — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Cess. And if I were, I mfght have saved my- 
The toil of coming here. [self 

Phil. Why so? 

Cces. One half 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
W^ill go to/him, the other half be sent. 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slight crooked friend's as snake-like in his 
As his deeds. [words 

CiBs. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

Bourb. You are brave, and that's enough 
for me: and quick 
In speech as- sharp in action — and that's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. [ness; 

Cces, They are but bad company, your high- 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as 
More permanent acquaintance. [being 



Phil. How now, fellow! 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

Cces. You mean I speak the truth. 

I'll lie — it is as easy: then you'll praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philibert, 

I Let him alone; he's brave, and ever has 
Been first with that swart face and mountain 

shoulder. 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of li- 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue [ccnsc, 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, suiien, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal. 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
W^ith which he deems him rich. 

C(ES. It would be weli 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb. Be silent! 

Cces. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with 
You have few to speak. [words. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater? 

Cces. To prate like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert! 

Why will you vex him? Have we not enough 
To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb ^ And you will follow? 

Am. Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step 

Cces. Upon its topmost, let us hope: 
So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
Retain'dher sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest. 
Still the word's masters! Civilized, barbarian. 
Or saintly, kill the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well! 
'Twas their turn — now His ours : and le^ us 
hope [ter. 

That we will fight as well, and rule much bet 

Cces. No doubt the camp's theschoolof civ- 
What would you make of Rome? [ic rights. 

Bourb. That which it was. 

Cces. In Alaric's time? 

Bourb. No, slave! in the first Caesar's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 



584 



THE DEFORMED TRAXSFOKMED. 



[part II. 



Cas. And kings! I 

Tis a great name for bloodhounds. | 

Bourb. There's a demon j 

In that fierce rattlesnake, thy tongue. Wilt| 
Be serious? [never j 

Cirs. On the eve of battle, no; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general , 
To be more pensive: we adventurers [think? 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we; 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, [hosts! 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from; 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have; 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse' 

for't. r^^^y 

Cc€S. I thank you for the freedom; 'tis the' 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay 
yourself. 
Look on those towers; they hold my treasury; 
But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Am. Prince! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bouyb, In both we prize it. 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

Ccrs. And mine? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
Good-night! 

Am. \io Ci^SAR]. Prepare our armor for 
And wait within my tent. [the assault, 

S^Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, ^Sr'r. 

Cces. \solus\ Within thy tent! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my 

presence? 
Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bas- 
This is the consequence of giving matter [tards ! 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn sub- 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts, [stance, 

Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well! I must play with these poor puppets: 'tis 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it I have business 
Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures 
deem [jest now 

W^ere made for them to look at. 'Twere a 
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
Unto their ant-hill; how the pismires then 
W^ould scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, 
ceasing [forth 

Erom tearing down each ollier's nests, pipe 
One universal orison. Ha! ha! 

\jExii C.iiSAR. 



PART II. 

Scene I. — Before the walls of Rome : the As- 
sault; the Army in motion^ ivith ladders to 
scale the walls ; BouRBON, with a white scarf 
over his armor y foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air. 
I. 

'Tis the morn, but dim and dark, 

Whither flies the silent lark? 

Whither shrinks the clouded sun? 

Is the day indeed begun? 

Nature's eye is melancholy 

O'er the city high and holy: 

But without there is a din 

Should arouse the saints within. 

And revive the heroic ashes 

Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 

Oh, ye seven hills! awaken. 

Ere your very base be shaken! 
II. 

Hearken to the steady stamp! 

Mars is in their every tramp! 

Not a step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the moon: 

On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water. 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep their ordei". 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor's clank! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier; 

Look on each step of each ladder, 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 
III. 

Look upon the bristling wall, 

Mann'd without an interval! 

Round and round, and tier on tier, 

Cannon's black mouth, shining spear. 

Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon. 

Gaping to be murderous soon; 

All the warlike gear of old, 

Mix'd with what we now behold, 

In the strife 'twixt old and new. 

Gather like a locusts' crew. 

Shade of Remus! 'tis a time 

Awful as thy brother's crime! 

Christians war against Christ's shrine:— 

Must its lot be like to thine? 

IV. 

Near — and near — and nearer still, 
As the earthquake saps th ^ hill. 
First with trembling, hoP.jw motion. 
Like a scarcc-awaktn'd ocean. 



SCENE I.] 



THE DEFORMED TRAXSFORMED. 



585 



Then with stronger shock and louder, 
Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — ! 
Onward sweeps the rolling host! 
Heroes of the immortal boast! 
Mighty chiefs! eternal shadows! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels? 
Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning, 
W^eep not — strike! for Rome is mourning.* 

V. 

Onward sweep the varied nations! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger. 
On they sweep. Oh, glorious city! 
Must thou be a theme for pity? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city; 
Rouse thee! Rather give the torch 
With thine own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 

VI. 

Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre! 
liion's children find no Hector; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother; 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
W^hen he slew his gallant twin. 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 

VII. 

Now they reach thee in their anger: 
Y'vct. and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder I 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming. 
Lying at its foot blaspheming! 
Up again! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 



* Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to have repeated j 
a verse of Homers and wept o'er the burning of Car- \ 
thage. He had better have granted it a capitulation. 



Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches 
Euroj^e's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome! although thy wall may perish. 
Such manure thy fields will cherish. 
Making gay the harvest-home; 
But thy hearths, alas! oh, R(jmel — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish, 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish! 

VIII. 
Yet once more, ye old Penates! 
Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's! 
Yet again, ye shadowy heroes. 
Yield not to these stranger Neros! 
Though the son who slew his mother 
Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
'Twas the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 
Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
Yet again, ye saints and martyrs. 
Rise ! for yours are holier charters ! 
Mighty gods of temples falling, 
Yet in ruin still appalling! 
Mightier founders of those altars, 
True and Christian, — strike the assaulters! 
Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent 
Show even nature's self abhorrent. 
Let each breathing heart dilated 
Turn, as doth the lion baited! 
Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 
But be still the Roman's Rome! 
Bourbon, Arnold, C/ESAR, and others^ ar- 
rive at the foot of the walL Arnold is 
about to plant his ladder. 
Bourb. Hold, Arnold! I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourb, Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow, 
I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader, 
[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to 
Now, boys! On! on! \iJioutii, 

\A shot strikes hi??i, and Bourbon y<?/A^. 
CcES. And off ! 

Am. Eternal powers I 

jThe host will be appall'd, — but vengeance! 
I vengeance! 

! Bourb. 'Tis nothing— lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes AK'^oi.d by the hand, attd 
j rises ; but as he puts his foot on the step, 

falls again. 

Arnold! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Arn. You must be 

Removed; the aid of 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy, 

Death is upon me. But what is one life? 



586 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
CiTS. Would not your highness choose to 
kiss the cross? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt ©f sword 
May serve instead: — it did the same for Bay- 
ard, [this time! 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave! to name ^zw at 
But I deserve it. 

Arn. \io Ci*:sAR]. Villain, hold your peace I 

Cces, What, when a Christian dies? Shall I 

A Christian ** Vade in pace "? [not offer 

Arn. Silence! Oh! 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlooked the 

And saw no equal. [world, 

Bourb. Arnold — shouldst thou see 

France But hark! hark! the assault grows 

warmer — Oh ! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life. 
To die within the wall! Hence, Arnold, hence! 
You lose time — they will conquer Romewith- 
Arn. And without thee ! [out thee. 

Bourb, Not so; I'll lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away! and be 
Victorious. 

Arn. But I must not leave thee thus. 

Bourb. You must — farewell — Up! up! the 
world is winning. [Bourbon dies. 

Cces. [/^Arnold]. Come, count, to business. 
Arn. True. I'll weep hereafter. 

[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a 
mantle, mounts the ladder, crying — 
The Bourbon! Bourbon! On, boys! Rome is 
ours! [a man. 

Cces, Good night, lord constable! thou wert 
\Qj^'6K^ folloTDs Arnold; they reach the bat- 
tlement; Arnold and C^sar are struck 
down. 
Cces. A precious somerset! Is your count- 
ship injured? 
Arn. No. [^Remounts the ladder. 

Cces. A rare blood-hound, when his own is 
heated! [down! 

And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here? a Ro- 

Hian? \^A man falls. 

The first bird of the covey! he has fallen 

On the outside of the nest. W^hy, how now. 

Wounded Majt. A drop of water! [fellow? 

Cces. Blood's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

I bounded Alan. I have died iui Rome. 

IDies. 



[part II. 

! Cces. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh, these immortal men! and their great mo 
tives! 

:, But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge! Charj^c ' 
[CitSAR. mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

Scene II. — The City. — Combats betwten the 
, Besiegers and Besieged in the streets. Jn- 

. habitants flying in confusion. 

Enter C^SAR. 
j Cces. I cannot find my hero; he is mix'd 
W^ith the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or .battle with the desperate. 
What have we here? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper! Could they 
doff ['twould be 

Their hose as they have doffd their hats, 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the 
Is of the self-same purple hue. [mire 

Enter a party fighting ; Arnold at the head 
of the Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — (loreand 
Holla! hold, count! [Glory. 

Arn. Away! they must not rally. 

Cues. I tell thee, be not rash; a golden 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee [bridge 
A form of beauty, and an 
i Exemption from some maladies of body. 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
jBut though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt thee not in Styx; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel; why, then, be cau- 
And know thyself a mortal still. [tious. 

Am. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions ruar? 
[Arnold rushes into the coin bat. 
Cirs. A precious sample of humanity! 
Well, his blood's up; and if a little's shed, 
'Twill serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who re- 
tires towards a portico. 
Arn. Yield thee, slave! 

I promise quarter. 

Rotn. That's soon said. 

Arn. And done — 

My word is known. 

Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

[^'J'hey re-engage. C.'KSAR comes forward. 



SCENE II.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



587 



Cces, Why, Arnold! hold thine own: thou 
hast in hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your better's. 

CcBs. Well said, my man of marble! Ben- 
venuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 

[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, 
but slightly ; the latter draws a pistol ^ 
and fires ; then retires ^ and disappears 
through the portico, 

Cces. How farest thou? Thou hast a taste, 
methinks. 
Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Am. [staggers']. 'Tis a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me 

Ciss. Where is it? [thus. 

Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm — • 
And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had 
A helm of water! 

C(^s. That's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Arn. And my thirst increases; — but 

I'll find a way to quench it. 

Cces. Or be quench'd 

Thyself. 

Arn. The chance is even; we will throw 

The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating; 

Prithee be quick. [C^sar dinds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly? 

Why dost not strike? 

CcBS, ^ Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 

Arn. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

Cces. A forest, when it suits me. ; 

I combat with a mass, or not at all. j 

Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine; I 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these la- 
Will reap my harvest gratis. [borers | 

Arn. Thou art still I 

A fiend! | 

Cces, And thou — a man. | 

Arn. Why, such I fain would show me. 

Cas, True — as men are. 

Am. And what i* that? i 



Cas. Thou feelest and thou seest. 

I [Exit Arnold, joining in the combat^ 

which still continues between detached 
i parties. The scene closes. 

Scene III. — St. Peter's. The Interior of the 
I Church : the Pope at the Altar ; Priests, &^c. , 
j crowding in the confusion^ and Citizens fiy- 
i ingfor refugCy pursued by Soldiery. 

Enter C/ESAR. 

\ A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, com- 
rades! seize upon those lamps! 
I Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine! 
i His rosary's of gold! 
I Lutheran Soldier. Revenge! revenge! 
! Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ! 

Cces. [interposing]. How now, schismatic? 
What wouldst thou? 

Luth. Sold, In the holy name of Clirist, 
Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

Cces, Yes, a disciple that would make the 
founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 

Luth, Sold. I say he is the devil. 

Cces. Hush! keep that secret. 

Lest he should recognize you for his own. 

Luth. Sold. Why would you save him? I re- 
peat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cces. And that's the reason : would you make 
a quarrel 
With your best friends? You had far best ])e 
His hour is not yet come. [quiet; 

Luth. Sold. That shall be seen! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward : 
a shot strikes him from one of the Pope's 
Guards , and he falls at the foot of the 
Altar. 

Cces. [to the Lutheran]. I told you so. 

Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me? 

Cces. Not I! You know that ** Vengeance 
is the Lord's:" 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

L.uth . Sold, [dying] . Oh ! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
A glorious triumph still; proud Babylon's 
No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes! [The 'Ll^thek \>i dies. 

Cces. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 

Well done, old Babel! 



5S8 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part II. 



[ The Guards defe^id themselves desperately , \ 
while the PONTIFF escapes by a p7'ivate 
passage, to the Vatican and the castle of 
St, Angelo. ( 

Cces. Ha! right nol)ly battled: 

Now, priest! now, soldier! the two great pro- 
fessions. 
Together by the ears and hearts! I have not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best. 



Olimp . [embracing a massive crucifix^ . Re- 
spect your God! 
,\/ Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold, 

irl, you but grasp your dowry. 
[As he advayices, Olimpia, with a strong 
and sudden effort, casts down the crncijix ; 
it strikes the Soldier , who falls. 
Sd Sold. Oh, great God I 

Olimp. Ah! now you recognize him. 
^d. Sold. My brain is crushed ! 



Now they must take their turn. [then; Comrades, help, ho! All's darkness! [He dies. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped! Other Soldiers [coming np\ Slay her, al- 

Follow! though she had a thousand lives: 

Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow She hath kill'd our comrade. 

passage up, i Olimp. Welcome such a death! : 

And it is clogg'd with dead even to the • door. You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Cces. I am glad he hath escaped: he may I Would take. Great God! through thy re- 
thank me for't ! deeming Son, 
In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — jAnd thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
'Twere worth one half our empire: his in-' I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
dulgences j and thee! 



Flnter Arnold. 



Demand some in return; — no, no, he must not ■ 

Fall; — and, besides, his now escape may furn-| 

A future miracle, in future proof [ish' Am. What do I see? Accursed jackals! 

Of his infallibility. [T^^Z/z^Spanish Soldiery. Forbear! 

Well, cut-throats! | Cces. [aside and laughing']. Ha! ha! here's 

What do you pause for? If you make not haste equity ^ The dogs 

There will not be a link of pious gold left. | Have as much right as he. But to the issue I 
And j^'^w, too, catholics! Would ye return ■ Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic? ! Arn. With what weapon? 

The very Lutherans have more true devotion, j Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; 
See how they strip the shrines! | behold him 

Soldiers. By holy Peter ! ; Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast 

He speaks the truth; the heretics will bear I Upon his head. [it 

The best away. | Arn. Even so; there is a woman 

Cces. And that were shame! Go to!! Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 

Assist in their conversion. [The Soldiers dis-\ Ye would have honor'dher. But get ye hence, 
perse ; many quit the Church, others enter. \ And thank your meanness, other God you have 



CcBS. They are gone. 

And others come: so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean. 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So another! 



Enter Oi.l^iviK, flying from the pursuit- 
springs tcpojt the Altar. 
Sold. She's mine! 

Another Sold, [opposing the former]. You 
lie, I track'dher first: and were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. \They fight, 
^d Sold, [advancing towards Olimpia]. 
You may settle 
Your claims; I'll make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave! 

You touch me not alive. 

^d Sold, Alive oi- dead! 



none. 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks,! would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away! 
Ye jackals! gnaw the bones the lion leaves. 
But not even these till he permits. 
I .'/ Sold. [7)iur7Jiuring]. The lion 

^^'^^ I Might conquer for himself then. 

{ Arn. [cuts hi7/i down]. Mutineer! 

[Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth! 

{The Soldiers assault Ak'S old. 
Arn. Come oh! I'm glad on't! I will show 
you slaves, [you 

How you should be commanded, and who led 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale. 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you' are bold within it. 

[Arnold ;;/^7£; J- do7an the foremost ; the 
rest throw doivn their arms. 



SCENE III.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



5^9 



Soldiers. Mercy! mercy! A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have T taught The saints have sanctified ! 

you who [Olimpia waves her hand io Arnold ^vith 

Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements? disdain, and dashes herself on the pave- 

Soldiers. We saw it, and wc know it; yet 7?ient from the Altar. 

forgive ; Am. Eternal God! 

A moment's error in the heat of conquest — jl feel thee now! Help! help! She's gone! 
The conquest which you led to. | Cces. [approaches^. I am here. 

Arn. Get you hence!! Am. Thou! but oh, save her! 

Hence to your quarters! you will find themi Ccbs. [assisting him to raise OiAMVlfC\. She 
fixed The leap was serious. [hath done it well. 

In the Colonna palace. Arn. Oh! she is lifeless! 

Olimp. [aside\. In my father's Cces. If 

House! [have no further needjShe be so, I have nought to do with that: 

The resurrection is beyond me. 



Arn. [io the soldier s^ Leave your arms; ye 
Of such; the city's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a 

stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, [deposing their arms and depart - 
ing'\. We obey! 

Arn. [to Olimpia]. Lady, you are safe. 

Olimp. I should be so 

Had I a knife even; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates; and on the 

marble, 

Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 

Arn. I wish to merit His forgiveness, and 



Arn. Slave! 

Cces. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one: 
methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words! — canst thou aid her? 

Cces. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[Hebrhtgs some in his helmet from thefofit. 

Am. 'Tis mix'd with blood. 

Ca:s. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Arjt. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee! 

Cces. Even so Achilles loved 



Thine own, although I have not injured thee. jPenthesilea: with his form it seems 

Olimp. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native ; You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 
land, — Arn. She breathes! But no, 'twas nothing. 

No injury! — and made my father's house or the last 

A den of thieves!— No injury! — this temple — Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

Slippery with Roman and with holy gore! Ctes. She breathes. 

No injury! And thou wouldst preserve me, \ Arn. Than say'st it? Then 'tis truth. 

To be but that shall never be! ' Cces. You do me right — 

[She raises her eyes to heaven, folds her\T\\^ devil speaks truth much oftener than 
robe round her, and prepares to dash\ he's deem'd: 

herself down on the side of the Altar ^/-jHe hath an ignorant audience. 



posite tb that ivhere Arnold starids. 

Arn. Hold! hold! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 

A perjury for which even hell would loathe 

I know thee. [thee. 



Am. [without atte7iding to hint\. Yes! her 
heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

Cces. A sage reflection, 



Arn. No, thou know'st me not; I am not But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we 

Of these men, though i bear her? 

Olimp ^ I judge thee by thy mates; , I say she lives. 



It is for God to judge thee as thou art. I Arn. 

I see thee purple with the blood of Rome; | Cces. 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me, ! As dust can. 



And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 



Arn. 
Cces. 
And do not 
life— 



And will she live? 



Then she is dead! 
Bah! bah! 



As much 



You are so, 



know it. She will come to 



590 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



[part III. 



Such as you think so, such as you now are; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am. We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitched my banner. 

Cics. Come then! raise her up! 

Arn. Softly! 

G?i-. As softly as they bear the dead, 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Arn. But doth she live indeed? 

CcEs. Nay, never fear! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Arn. Let her but live ! 

C(BS^ The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count! count! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new office: — 'tis not oft 
I am employ'd in such; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends; 
Now /desert not mine. Soft! bear her hence. 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit! 
I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earlier sex, 

Arn. Thou! 

Cces. I! But fear not. I'll not be your rival. 

Arn. Rival! 

CcBS. I could be one right formidable; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride (and after all 
Was suck'd out by some incense), I have laid 
Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again; for there's 
The rub! at least to mortals. 

Arn. Prithee, peace! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

CcEs. Like stars, no doubt; for that's a 
metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Arn. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you! 

Cces, Oh! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Arn. Now onward, onward! Gently! 

\^Exeiint^ dearm^ Olimvia. 7^ he scene closes. 



PART III. 

Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines^ sur- 
rounded by a wild but smiling Country, 
Chorus of Peasants singing before the gates. 

Chorus. 



The wars are over, 
The spring is come; 



The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home: 
They are happy, we rejoice; 
Let their heats have an echo in every voice! 

II. 
The spring is come; the violet's gone. 
The first-bom child of the early sun: 
With us she is but a winter's flower. 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 

III. 
And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odor and virgin hues. 

IV. 

Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers. 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours, 
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter C^SAR. 
CcEs. [singing]. The wars are all over. 
Our swords are all idle, 
The steed bites the bridle. 
The casque's on the wall. 
There's rest for the rover; 
But his armor is rusty, 
And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what's drinking? 
A mere pause from thinking! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death c>lL 

Chorus, 
But the hound bayeth loudly. 

The boar's in the wood. 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood: 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest. 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cips, Oh! shadow of glory! 

Dim image of war! 
But the chase hath no story, 

Her hero no star. 
Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase, 
Who made the woods wonder 

And quake for their race. 
When the lion was young. 

In the pride of his might. 



SCENE 1.] 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



591 



Then 'twas sport for the strong 


Chorus. 


To embrace him in fight; 




To go forth, with a pine 


But the wars are over. 


For a spear, 'gainst the Mammoth, 


The spring is come; 


Or strike through the ravine 


The bride and her lover 


At the foaming Behemoth; 


Have sought their home; 


While man was in stature 


They are happy, and we rejoice; 


As towers in our time. 


Let their hearts have an echo from every 


The first-born of nature, 


voice! 


And, like her, sublime! 


{Exeunt the Peasantry, singing. 



DON JUAN. 



gmgcr 



I819. 

• Difficile est proprie communia dicere." — Horace. 

•• Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ? Yes, by St. Anne, and 
er shall be hot 1' the mouth, tool" — Shakspeare, Twelfth Night, or What You Will. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



FRAGMENT, 

On the back of the Poefs MS. of Canto I, 
1 WOULD to heaven that I were so much clay, 

As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feel- 
ing— 
Because at least the past were pass'd away — 

And for the future — (but I write this reeling, 
Ilavmg got drunk exceedingly to-day. 

So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
I say — the future is a serious matter — 
And so — for God's sake — hock and soda-water! 



DEDICATION. 
I. 

Bob Southey! You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 
And representative of all the race; 

Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
Last — yours has lately been a common case — 

And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? 
With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 

A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 

Like ** four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pye; 

II. 
' * Which pye being open'd they began to sing " 

(This old song and new simile holds good), 
** A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food, — 
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. 

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
I wish he would explain his Explanation. 

III. 
You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know. 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below. 

And be the only blackbird in the dish; 
And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high. 

Bob, 
And fall, f(jrlack of moisture (juitc a-dry, Bob! 



TV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion** 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages). 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages; 

'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



You — Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion 
Erom better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone; 

There is a narrowness in such a notion, 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes 
for ocean. 

VI. 

I would not imitate the petty thought. 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
For all the glory your conversion brought. 
Since gold alone should not have been its 
price, [wrought? 

You have your salary: was't for that you 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise! •' 
You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still. 
And duly seated on the immortal hill. 



VII. 
hide the 



baldness of your 



Your bays may 
brows — 

Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go — 
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs. 

And for the fame you would engross below, 



* Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs — it is, I 
think, in that or the Excise — besides aiiother at Lord 
Lonsdale's table, where this poetical charlatan and po- 
litical parasite licks up the crumbs with a hardened alac- 
rity ; the converted Jacobin having long subsided into 
the clownish sycophant of the worst prejudices of the 
aristocracy. 



tSl9. 



DON JUAN. 



593 



The field is universal, and allows I xii. 

Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow; Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe,! Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's 

will try I gore, 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

yjjj^ Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 

Forme,who,wandering with pedestrian Muses, 'The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want. 

Contend not with you on the winged steed, i ^^^^^ J^^^t enough of talent, and no more, 
I wish your fate may yield ye,when she chooses, 'To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 

The fame you envy and the skill you need; And offer poison long already mix'd. 



And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 
IX. 

lie that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright re- 
version) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion; 



An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
j That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 
i Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile; 

Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 
' From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 

That turns and turns to give the world a notion 

Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 



And although here and there some glorious a bungler even in its disgusting trade, 

^^^^^y I And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion. Something of which its masters are afraid. 



The major part of sueh appellants go [know 

To — God knows where — for no one else can 

X. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 

Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 
And makes the word** Miltonic" mean ** sub- 
lime :' 
He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime; 
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 
Think'st thou, could he— the blind Old Man 

— arise, [more Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once j xvi. 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, | Where shall. I turn me not to view its bonds. 

Or be alive again— again all hoar j Yox I will ntv^v feel them :— Italy !' 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
And heartless daughters— worn— and pale* I Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed 

o'er thee — [wountls, 

Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 

Europe has slaves — allies — kings — aimies 

And Southey lives to sing them very ill. [still. 



States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be con- 
Conspiracy or Congress to be made — [fined, 

Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old 

chains, 
W^ith God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 

Emasculated to the marrow // 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 

Deeming the chain it wears^even men may 
Eutropius of its many masters, — blind* [fit, 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice. 



_ -worn- 

— and poor: 
Would he adore a sultan? he obey 
The intellectual eunuch CastlereaghPf 



*'* Pale, but not cadaverous:" — Milton's two elder 
daughters are said to have robbed him of his books, be- 
sides cheating and plaguing him m the economy of his I - 
house, &c., &c. His feelings on such an outrage, both ! but must say, as Ben Jonson did to Sylvester, who chal- 
as a parent and a scholar, must have been singularly i lenged him to rhyme with — 
painful. Hay ley compares him to Lear. See part third, I John Sylvester 

Life of Milton, by W. Hayley ''or Hailey, as spelt in the L^y with your sister." 

edition before me^. ^ , t t^ t i '.u v » 

+ Qj. Jonson answered, — " I, Ben Jonson, lay with y-iurwite. 

, -,' ,, , , . , . , , T Sylvester answered,— *' That is not rhyme. '—" No," 

Would A^ subside into a hackney Laureate— ^^^id Ben Jonson; - but it is true:' 

A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn d Iscanot ? ' , * por the character of Eutropius, the eunucli and min- 
I doubt if '* Laureate " and " Iscariot " be good rhymes, ister at the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon. 

38 



5^4 



DOX JUAX. 



1819. 



Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate, 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 

And if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'Tis that I still retain my " buff and blue;"* 

My politics as yet are all to educate: 

Apostasy's so fashionable, too, [lean: 

To keep one creed's a task grown quite Hercu- 

Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra- Julian ?f 

Venice, September 16, 18 18. 



I WANT a hero: an uncommon want, 

\Vhen every year and month sends forth a 
new one. 

Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 
The age discovers he is not the true one: 

Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don 
Juan — 

We all have seen him, in the pantomime, 

Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 



Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, 
Hawke, « [P^^ Howe, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granoy, Burgoyne, Kep- 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 
And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Welles- 
ley now; [stalk. 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs 
Followers of fame, <* nine farrow of that 
sow:" 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 



Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 

Were French, and famous people, as we know; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert, lioche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, 
With many of the military set, [Moreau, 

Exceedingly remarkable at times. 

But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war. 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd: 

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd; 

Because the army's grown more popular. 
At which the naval people are concern'd: 



* [The uniform of the Whig Club of Fox's time; hence 
the buff and blue ccwer of the Edinburgh Review.] 

t I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor 
Count Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept 
•• The Apostate." 



Besides, the prince is all for the land service. 
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon,* 

And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
A good deal like him too, though quite the 
same none; 

But then they shone not on the poet's page, 
And so have been forgotten ; — I condemn none. 

But can't find any in the present age 
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 

VI. 

Most epic poems plunge in 77iedias res 
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), 

And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
What went before — by way of episode, 

While seated after dinner at his ease. 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

VII. 

That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning; 

The regularity of my design [ning, 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sin- 

And therefore I shall open with a line [ning), 
(Although it cost me half an hour in spin- 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father. 

And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 
VIII. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 
Famous for oranges and women: he 

Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 
So says the proverbf — and I quite agree; 

Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
Cadiz, perhaps — but that you soon may see — 

Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His father's name was J6se — Don, of course, 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen ot 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, [Spain ; 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again. 

Than J6se, who begot our hero, who 

Begot — but that's to come — Well, to renew. 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 
In every Christian language ever named, 



* " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," &c. — Horack, 
t iQuion no ha vi.sto Sevilla no ha vlsto maravilla}. 



iSi9. 



DON yUAN. 



S95 



With virtues equall'd by her wit alone. 
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed; 

And even the good with inward envy groan, 
Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
In their own way, by all the things that she did. 

XI. 
Her memory was a mine; she knew by heart 

All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 
So that if any actor miss'd his part, 

She could have served him for the prompter's 
For her Feinagle's were an useless art,* [copy ; 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 
Could never make a memory so fine as 
That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez. 



Her favorite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity; 
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic 
all. 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy; her morning dress was dimity, 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puz- 
zling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, *' the Lord's 

prayer," 

And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly sure; 

She read some French romances here and 

there, [pure; 

Although her mode of speaking was not 

For native Spanish she had no great care, 

At least her conversation was obscure ; [lem. 
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a prob- 
As if she deem'd that mystery would en- 
noble 'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said^ there was analogy between 'em; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song. 
But I must leave the proofs to those who've 
seen 'em. 

But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong, 
And all may think which way their judg- 
ments lean 'em, [* I am,' 

** 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means 

The English always use to govern d — n." 

XV. 

Some women use their tongues — she looked a 
lecture, 
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily. 
An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 



Like the lamented late wSir Samuel Romilly, 
The Law's expounder,and the State's corrector. 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that " All is vanity " 
(The jury brought their verdict in ** Insanity "). 

XVI. 
In short, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from thejr 
covers. 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 

Or"Coelebs' Wife" set out in quest of lovers; 
Morality's prim personification. 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; 
To others' share let ** female errors fall," 
For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
XVII. 

Oh! she was perfect, past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison; 
So far above the cunning powers of hell. 

Her guardian angel had given up his garri- 
Even her minutest motions went as well [son : 

As those of the best time-piece made by 
Harrison. 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine ** incomparable oil," Macassar!* 

XVIIl. 
Perfect she was; but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier 
bowers. 
Where all was peace, and innocence andjbliss, 

(I wonder how they got through" the twelve 
Don J6se, like a lineal son of Eve, [hours), 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 
He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning or the learn'd, 
Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 

And never dream'd his lady was concern'd; 
The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 

To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 
Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said tiuo, 
But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 
Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 

A great opinion of her own good qualities; 
Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it> 

And such, indeed, she was in her moralities: 
But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with real- 
And let few opportunities escape [ities. 
Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 



* Professor Feinagle in 1812 gave lectures at the 
Royal Institution on Mnemonics. 



* " Description des vertus incomparables de I'huile 
Macassar." — See the Advertisement. 



596 



DON JUAN. 



1S19. 



This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
Have moments, hours, and days, so unpre- 
pared, [Tan; " 

That you might '* brain them with their lady's 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding liard, 

And fans turn i»tto falchions in fair hands, 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

Tis pity learn«td virgins ever wed 
With persons of no sort of education. 

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred. 
Grow tired of scientific conversation: 

I don't choose to say much upon this head,* 
I'm a plain man, and in a single station; 

But — 0}j ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 

Inform us truly, have they not henpeck'd you 
ali? 

XXIII. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrel'd — why , 
Not any of the many could divine. 

Though several thousand people chose to try; 
'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine; 

I loathe that low vice — curiosity; 

But if there's anything in which I shine, 

'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, 

Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions ; but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people we^e possess'd, 
For neitlier of them could I ever find. 

Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind. 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from hisl)irth; 
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 

Upon the most unquiet imp on earth; 
Insteadof quarreling, had they been both in 
Their senses, they'd have sent young master 
forth [home. 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at 
To teach him manners for the time to come. 



Don J6se and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life. 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead. 
They lived respectably as man and wife; 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 



I And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 
And put the business past all kind of doubt. 



XXVII. 

For Inezcall'd some druggists and physicians. 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad; 

But as he had some lucid intermissions. 
She next decided he was only had; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had. 

Save that her duty both to man and God [odd. 

Required this conduct — which seem'd very 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
Andopen'd certain trunks of books and let- 
ters. 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors. 

Besides her good old grandmother(who doted) : 
The hearers of her case became repeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 
And then this best and meekest woman bore 

With such serenity her husband's woes, 
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 

Who saw their spouses kill'd and nobly chose 
Never to say a word about them more — 

Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 
And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 
That all the world exclaim'd, ** What magna- 
nimity!" 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world is 
damning us, 

Is philosophic in our former friends; 
'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous. 

The more so in obtaining our own ends; 
And what the lawyers call a <* mains a7thfius,''' 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
Revenge in person's certainly no virtue, 
But then 'tis not ??iy fault {{others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

Pm not to blame, as you well know^ — no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional : 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
By contrast, which is what we just were 
wishing all: 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissec- 
tion. 



iSi9. 



DON JUAN, 



597 



XXXII. ! 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation, I 

Then their relations, who made matters 
worse, I 

('Tvvere hard to tell upon a like occasion 

To whom it may be best to have recourse— 
I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : | 

The lawyers did their utmost for divorce. 
But scarce a fee was paid on either side. 
Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 
He died rand most unluckily, because 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kind of laws 

(Although their talk's obscure and circum- 
spect), ... I 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause : I 

A thousand pities also with respect i 

To public feeling, which on this occasion j 

Was manifested in a great sensation. \ 

XXXIV. I 

But ah I he died; and buried with him lay ; 

The public feeling and the lawyers' fees: | 
His house was sold, his servants sent away, | 

A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
A priest the other — at least so th^y say: 

I ask'd the doctors after his decease — 
He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, 
And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet J6se was an honorable man; 

That I must say, who knew him very well; 
Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan, 

Indeed, there were not many more to tell; 
And if his passions now and then outran 

Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),* 
He had been ill brought up, and was born 
bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er r^ight be his worthlessness or worth. 
Poor fellow! he had many things to wound 
him. 

Let's own — since it can do no good on earth — 
It was a trying moment that which found him 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd 
round him : 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride, 

Save Death, or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 



XXXVII. ' 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir [lands, 

To a Chancery suit, and messuages, and 

* '* primus qui legibus urbem 

Fundabit, Curibus parvis et paupere terra 
Missus in imperium magnum." — Virg. 



Which, with a long minority and care. 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And answer'd but to nature's just demands; 
An only son left with an only mother. 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 
Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a para- 
And worthy of the noblest pedigree [g^n : 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arra- 
Then for accomplishments of chivalry, [gon); 

In case our lord the king should go to war 
again. 
He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 
But that which Donna Inez most desired. 

And saw into herself, each day, before all 
The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 

Was, that his breeding should be strictly 
Much into all his studies she inquired, [moral. 

And so they were submitted first to her, all, 
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
To Juan's eyes, excepting ivatural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead; 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse; 
The arts, at least all such as could be said 

To be the most remote from common use; 
In all these he was much and deeply read; 

But not a page of anything that's loose. 
Or hints continuation of the species. 
Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 

XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle. 
Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
But never put on pantaloons or boddices. 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 
And for their A^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology. 

For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 

Catullus scarcely had a decent poem, 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 

Although Longinus* tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings 

more ample; [one 

But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid 

Beginning with *' Fonnosuin Pastor Corydony 

* See Longinus, Section lo, " iva /u.tj eV rt irepl avrr)v 



59S 



DOX JUAN. 



1819. 



XLIII. 

Lucretius' irrelif;ion is too strong 

For early stomachs to prove wholesome food ; 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much, indeed, as to be downright rude; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition, 

Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision. 

The grosser parts; but fearful to deface 
Too much their modest bard by this omission. 

And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
They only add them all in an appendix,* 
Which saves in fact the trouble of an index: 

XLV. 
For there we have them all "at one fell swoop," 

Instead of being scatter'd through the pages; 
They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome 
troop. 

To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 
Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages. 
Instead of standing staring all together, 
Like garden-gods — and not so decent either. 

XLVI. 

The Missal, too (it was the family Missal), 
Was ornamented in a sort of way [all 

Which ancient mass-books often are, and this 
Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they. 

Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 
Could turn their optics to the text and pray. 

Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 

Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLVII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

lie did not take such studies for restraints: 

But how faith is acquired, and then ensured. 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine in his fme confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgres- 
sions. f 



* Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
the end. 

t See his Confessions, 1. i. c. ix. By the representa- 
tion which Saint Augustine gives of himself in his youth, 
it is easy to see that he was what we should call a rake. 
He avoided the school as the plague; he loved nothing 
but gaming and pvibiic shows; he robbed his father of 
everything he could find; he invented a thousand lies to 
escape the rod, wtiich they were obliged to make use of, 
to punish his irregularities. ' 



XLVIII. 
This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 

I can't but say that his mamma was right. 
If such an education was tlie true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight; 
Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 

You might be sure she was a perfect fright. 
She did this during even her husband's life — 
I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 
Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace* 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fme a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
He studied steadily, and grew apace, 

And seem'd at last in the right road to heaven, 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the 

other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said, he was a charming child. 
At twelve he was a fine but quiet boy; 
Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down amongst them ; to de- 
ll is natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. [stroy 
At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy 
Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady. 
Her young philosopher was grown already, 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 
But what I say is neither here nor there; 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it w^ould not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill: 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But Scandal's my aversion — I protest 

Against all evil-speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put [none), ^ 

To school (as God be praised that I have 

'Tis not with Donna Inez I wt)uld shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone: 

No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college. 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 
For there one learns — 'tis not foj- me to boast, 

Though I acquired — but I pass over that^ 
As well as all the Greek I since have lost: 
I say that there's the place — but '•^Vcrbum 
sat:' 
I think I pick'd up too, as well as nu)st, 

Knowledge of matters — but no matter what; 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



599 



I never married — but I think, I know 
That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he 
seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 
And everybody but his mother deeni'd 

Him almost man; but she flew in a rage 
And bit her lips (for else she might have 
scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
Selected for discretion and devotion. 

There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 

Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean. 

Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 

(But this last simile is trite and stupid). 

LVI. 

The darkness of her Oriental eye 
Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 

(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by: 
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin). 

When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 
Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 

Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 

Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. 

LVII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should 
be; 
At such alliances his sires would frown. 

In that point so precise in each degree 

That they bred??/ andin^ as might be shown. 

Marrying thpir cousins — nay, their aunts and 
nieces. 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh; 

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh : 

The sons no more were short, the daughters 
plain. 
But there's a rumor which I fain would hush, 

'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 
However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation. 



Until it centred in an only son. 

Who left an only daughter: my narration 
May have suggested that this single one 

Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 
I shall have much to speak about), and she 
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty- 
three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire. 

And love than either; and there would arise 
A something in them which was not desire. 

But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 

Which struggled through and chasten'd down 
the whole. 

LXI. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
Bright with intelligence, and fair and 
smooth; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 

Mounting at times to a transparent glow. 
As if her veins ran lightning: she, in sooth, 

Pessess'd an air and grace by no means com- 
mon; 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman, 

LXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 
'Twere better to have TWO of five-and-twenty. 

Especially in countries near the sun. 

And now I think on't, <'mivienin mente," 

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 

'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
And all the fault of that indecent sun, 

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay. 
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on. 

That howsoever people fast and pray, 
The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 

Is much more common where the climate's 
sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral North! 
Where all is virtue, and the winter season 

Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 
! ('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to 
I reason);* 

I *For the particulars of St. Anthony's recipe for hot 
blood in cold weather, see Mr. Albs^n Butler's '* Lives 

'of the Saints." 



6oo 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, [on 
By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 



Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 
\Vas neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr'd: 

They lived together as most people do. 
Suffering each other's foibles by accord. 

And not exactly either one or t7uo; 
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it. 
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

I.XVI. 
Julia was — yet I never could see why — 

With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend; 
Between their tastes there was small sympathy. 

For not a line had Julia ever penn'd; 
Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie. 

For malice still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 

LXVII. 

And that, still keeping up the old connection, 
Which time had lately rendered much more 

She took his lady also in affection, [chaste, 
And certainly this course was much the best. 

She tlatter'd Julia with her sage protection. 
And complimented. Don Alfonso's taste: 

And if she could not (who can?) silence scan- 

At least she left it a more slender handle, [dal, 

LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the aftair 

With other people's eyes, or if her own 
Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
* Of this, at least no symptoms e'er were 

shown : 
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 

Indifferent from the first, or callous grown; 
I'm really puzzled what to think or say. 
She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

Caress'd him often — such a thing might be 
(^uite innocently done, and harmless styled, 

When she had twenty years, and thirteen 
But I am not so sure I should have smiled [he ; 

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three: 
These few short years make wondrous altera- 
Particularly amongst sunburnt nations, [tions, 

LXX. 

Whate'er the«cause might be, they had become 

Changed; for the dame grew distant, the 

youth shy, [dumb, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost 



' And much embarrassment in either eye: 
There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why; 
But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
Than he who never saw the sea or ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 

And tremulously gentle her small hand 
Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland. 
And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
! 'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's 

wand 
Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art 
iLike what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
' LXXI I. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
She must not own, but cherish'd more the 
while 
For that compression, in its burning core: 
I Even innocence itself has many a wile. 
And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

' LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
\ Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky 

P'oretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
! Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy. 
' Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
; Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

I LXXIV. 

I Then there were sighs, the deeper for sup- 

I pression, 

I And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 

And burning blushes, though for no transgres- 
j sion, [left; 

I Tremblings when met, and restlessness when 

All these little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
, And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
; Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 
\ LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; 
I She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 
For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 

Her resolutions were most truly great. 

And almost might have made a Tart^uin 
quake; 

She j:)ray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace. 

As being the best judge of a lady's case. 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



60 1 



Lxxvi. ; 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, i 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, , 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; | 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 

Again it opens, it can be no other; , 

'Tis surely Juan now — No! I'm afraid 1 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation, 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

but then they only seem so many brothers. 

, LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
That ail within was not so very well, 

And, if still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're 
over. 
And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial; 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure. 

Such as the angels think so very tine, 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, **just such love as mine:" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure; 

And so I'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger: 

A hand may first, and then a lip, be kiss'd; 
For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger. 

But here these freedoms form the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger; 

If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXX I. 
Love, then, but love within its proper limits. 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia either, 



LXXXII. 
Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
She, for the future, of her strength convinced, 

And that her honor was a rock or mole. 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control; 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mentioned in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feas- 
And surely, with a stripling of sixteen, [ible ; 

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean [seizable. 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was 
peaceable — 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene! 

Christians have burnt each other, quite per- 
suaded [did. 

That all the Apostles would have done as they 

LXXXIV. 

And if in the mean time her husband died; 

But Heaven forbid that such a thought 

should cross [sigh'd,) 

Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she 

Never could she survive that common loss; 
But just suppose that moment should betide, 

I only say suppose it — inter nos. 
(This should be entj-e noiiSy for Julia thought 
In French, but then the rhyme would go for 
nought.) 

LXXXV. 
I only say, suppose this supposition: 

Juan being then grown up to man's estate 
Would fully suit a widow of condition; [late; 

Even seven years hence it would not be too 
And in the interim (to pursue this vision), 

The mischief, after all, could not be great, 
For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
1 mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one: 

In feelings quick, as Ovid's Miss Medea,* 
He puzzled over what he found a new one. 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming. 
Which, with a little patience, might grow 
charming. 

LXXXVII. 
Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 

His home deserted for the lonely wood. 
Tormented with a wound he could not know. 



Qvid, de Art Amand., I.— il. 



6o2 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 
I'm fond myself of solitude or so. 

But then I beg it may be understood. 
By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

" Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, 
\Vhere transport and security entwine, 

Here is the emi)ire of thy perfect bliss. 
And here thou art a god indeed divine."* 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 
With the exception of the second line. 

For that same twining '* transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind. 
The very thing which everybody feels, 

As all have found on trial, or may find, 
That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 

Or love. — I won't say more about *' entwined" 
Or " transport," as we knew all that before. 
But beg ** Security " will bolt the door. 

xc. 
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 

Thinking unutterable things: he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
Where the wild branch of the cork forest 
grew; 
There poets find materials for their books. 
And every now and then we read them 
through. 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintel- 
ligible. 

xci. 

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth) so pursued 

His self-communion with his own high soul 
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 

Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
Of Its disease: he did the best he could 

With things not very subject to control. 
And turn'd, without perceiving his condition. 
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCII. 
1 1 e thought about himself, and the whole earth , 

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 
And how the deuce they ever could have birth; 

And then he thought of earthquakes and of 
wars, 
How many miles the moon might have in girth, 

Of air-])alloons, and of the many bars 



'•''■ Campbell's Gertrude 0/ Wyoming. I think the 
opening of Canto II., but quote from memory. 



To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; — 
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 

Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

W^hich some are born with, but the most part 

learn 

To plague themselves withal, they know not 

why: [concern 

'Twas strange that one so young should thus 

His brain about the action of the sky: 
\i yon think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIV. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
And heard a voice in all the winds, and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal 
bowers. 
And how the goddesses came down to men. 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 

And when he look'd upon his watch again. 
He found how much old Time had been a 

winner; 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 



Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
Boscan, or Garcillasso*: — by the wind 

Even as the page is rustled while we look. 
So by the poesy of his own mind 

Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 

Their spells, and give them to the passing gale. 

According to some good old woman's tale. 

xcvi. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away. 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 

A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 
And hear the heart beat with the love it 
granted ; 

With several other things which I forget. 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 

Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 

Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; 
She saw that Juan was not at his ease; 

But that which chiefly may, and must sur- 
fs, that the Donna Inez did not tease [prise, 

Her only son with question or surmise: 
Whether it was she did not see, or would not. 
Or, like all very clever people, could not. 



'■ Spanish poets. 



i8i9. 



DON yUAN. 



603 



xcviii. cm. 

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very com- 'Twas on a summer's day— the sixth of June: 
mon; { I like to be particular in dates, 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take Not only of the age and year, but moon : 
JLeave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, i They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 

And break the Which commandment Change horses, making history change its tune, 

is't they break? j Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 

(I have forgot the number, and think no man i Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Should rashly quote for fear of a mistake.) ! Excepting the post-obits of theology. 



I say when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies 
tell us. 

xcix. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place; 
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,! 

Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, ! 
By harboring some dear friend extremelyi With all the trophies of triumphant song- 
vicious : j H.e won them well, and may he wear them long ! 

The last indeed's infallibly the case: 



'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven — 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been 
given, 



And when the spouse and friend are gone off 

wholly. 
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

c. 
Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; 
Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er dis- 
cover, 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted. 
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's 
lover. 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 
The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 



cv. 
She sate, but not alone; I know not well 

How this same interview had taken place. 
And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case : 
No matter how or why the thing befell, 

But there was she and Juan, face to face — 
When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 
But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

cvi. 
How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no 
wrong, 
O Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 

Strengthening the weak, and trampling on 
the strong! 
How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 



I 



But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion JThe precipice she stood on was immense. 
She had some other motive much more near, | So was her creed in her own innocence, 

For leaving Juan to this new temptation; 
But what that motive w^as, I shan't say here; 

Perhaps to finish Juan's education. 
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
la case he thought his wife too great a prize. 



CII. 
It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 

Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, 
And so is spring, about the end of May: 

The sun no doubt is the prevailing reason; 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
And stand convicted of more truth than 
treason, [merry in — 



She thought of her own strength and Juan's 
And of the folly of all prudish fears, [youth. 

Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: 

I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 
Because that number rarely much endears. 

And through all climes, the snowy and the 
sunny, 

Sounds ill in love, whatever it may in money. 

CVIII. 

When people say, ** I've toldyouyf/?)' times," 
They mean to scold, and very often do; 



That there are months which nature grows more When poets say,** I've writteny^/Zy rhymes," 
March has its hares, and May must have its! They make you dread that they'll recite 
heroine, i them too; 



6o4 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



In gangs oi fifty y thieves commit their crimes; 

hX fifty y love for love is rare, 'tis true; 
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is 
A good deal may be bought iox fifty louis. 

cix. 
Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love 

For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore. 
By all the vows below to powers above, 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore. 
Nor have a wish which wisdom might reprove; 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much 
more, 
(Jne hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own. 

ex. 

Unconsciously, she lean'd upon the other. 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not 
smother. 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair: 

She who for many years had watch'd her son so ; 

I'm very certain wzw^ would not have done so. 

CXI, 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp. 

As if it said, <* Detain me, if you please; " 
Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze; 
She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp. 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 



I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 
But what he did is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss. 
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss. 
Love is so very timid when 'tis new: 

She blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to 
speak, [weak. 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so 

CXIII. 
The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: 

The devil's in the moon for miscliief; they 
Who call'd her chaste ^ methinks began too soon 

Their nomenclature; there is not a day. 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 

Sees half the busine^^s in a wicked way 
On which three single hours of moonshine 

smile — 
And then she looks so modest ail the while. 



CXIV. 
There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 
To open all itself, without the power 

Of calling wholly back its self-control; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and 

tower, [whole. 

Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced. 

And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas 
placed-: [harm. 

Yet still she must have thought there was no 
Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist; 

But then the situation had its charm. 
And then — God knows what next — I can't go 
I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. [on: 

cxvi. 

Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct, by the fancied sway 

Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers: — You're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVII. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 
Until too late for useful conversation; 

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion: 

But who, alas, can love, and then be wise? 
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation : 

A little still she strove, and much repented, 

And whispering '* I will ne'er consent" — con^ 
sented. 

CXVI II. 

Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward [sure; 

To those who could invent him a new plea- 
Methinks the requisition's rather hard, 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure: 
For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard. 

Fond of a little love (which I call leisure): 

1 care not for new pleasures, as the old 
Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

pleasure! you're indeed a pleasant thing, 
Although one must be damn'd for you, nojj 

1 make a resolution every spring, [doubt:! 

Of reformation ere the year run out; 

But somehow this my vestal vow lakes wing, j 

Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout; 



i 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



605 



I 111 very sorry, very much ashamed, 

And mean next winter to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 
Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 
Start not, still chaster reader — she'll be nice 
hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 

This liberty is a poetic license. 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design : and as I have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

cxxi. 
This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 
Without whose epoch my poetic skill. 

For want of facts, would all be thrown away), 
But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd; 
we'll say 
'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 
About the day — the era's more obscure. 
CXXII. 

We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear, 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 
'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
CXXIII. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw 
near home; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we 

'Tis sweet to be awaken 'd by the lark, [come; 
Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum 

Of bees, tlie voice of girls, the song of birds. 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

CXXIY. 

SWeet is the vintage, when the showering 
grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women. 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 

The unexpected death of some old lady 



Or gentleman of seventy years complete. 
Who've made ** us youth^' wait too — too long 
already 
For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its [obits. 
Next owner for their double-damn'd post- 

cxxvi. 
'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 

By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end 
To strife: 'tis sometimes sweet to have our 
quarrels. 
Particularly with a tiresome friend: 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
I Against the world: and dear the schoolboy 
j spot 

j We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
I cxxvii. 

; But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 
jLike Adam's recollection of his fall:[known — 
I The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd, all's 
I And life yields nothing further to recall, 
I Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven [en. 

j Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heav- 
\ cxx VIII. 

' Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
I Of his own nature, and the various arts, 
I And likes particularly to produce 
j Some new experiment to show his parts; 
iThis is the age of oddities let loose, 
I Where different talents find. their different 
\ marts: [lost your 

I You'd best begin with truth, and when you've 
I Labor, there's a sure market for imposture. 
I cxxix. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen! 

(Signs of true genius and of empty pockets :) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
But vaccination certainly has been [sockets; 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
W^ith which the doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

cxxx. 
Bread has been made (indifferent) from po- 
tatoes, [ning, 
And galvanism has set some corpses grin- 
But has not answer'd like the apparatus 

Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 

What wondrous new machines have late 
been spinning! 



6o6 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



I said the small-pox has gone out of late, 
Perhaps it may be followed by the great. 



CXXXI. 

Tis said the great came from America; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
The population there so spreads, they say 

*Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilization they may learn; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? [is — 

CXXXII. 
This is the patent age of new inventions 

For killing bodies, and for saving souls. 
All propagated with the best intentions; 

Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals 
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 

Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 

And wonderful beyond all wondrous mea- 
sure; 
'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a plea- 
sure ; 
Few mortals know what end they would be at, 

But whether glory, power,or love, or treasure. 
The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
The goal is gain'd, we die, you know,; — and 

then 

CXXXI V. j 

What then ? — I do not know, no more do you — i 

And so good-night. — Return we to our story : 
'Twas in November, when fine days are few, ! 

And the far mountains wax a little hoary. 
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;: 

And the sea dashes round the promontory. 
And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

CXXXV. 

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 

By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was 

bright [crowd: 

With the piled wood, round which the family 

There's something cheerful in that sort of light. 

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud: 
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

CXXXVI. 
'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed. 
Sleeping, uKJSt pr()l)al)ly, — when at her door 



Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before; 
And that they have been so, we all have read. 

And are to be so, at the least, once more; 
The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then *' Madam — 
madam — hist! 

CXXXVII. 

"For God's sake. Madam — Madam — here's 
my master. 
With more than half the city at his back — 
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! 
'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — 
Alack! 
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly — 
Surely the window's not so very high!" 

CXXXVIII. 
By this time Don Alfonso was arrived. 

With torches, friends and servants in great 
number; 
The major part of them had long been wived, 
And therefore paused not to disturb the 
slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to en- 
cumber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
W'ere one not punish'd, all would be out- 
rageous. 

cxxxix. 
I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
W^ithout a word of previous admonition, 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and 

sword, 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep 
(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept). 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonio, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap. 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping 
double. 

CXLI. 
But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, 
who 



I 



i8i9. 



DON yUAN. 



607 



Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, [two. 
Had thought one man might be deterr'd by 

And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
Until the hours of absence should run 
through, 

And truant husband should return, and say, 

** My dear, I was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

** In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye 

mean? [died 

Has madness seized you? Would that I had 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been! 

What may this midnight violence betide? 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? [kill ? 

Dare you suspect me, when the thought would 

Search, then, the room!" — Alfonso said, "I 
will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged 

everywhere, [seat, 

Closet and clothes-press, chest, and window- 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, com- 

With other articles of ladies fair, [plete. 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat; 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their 

swords, [boards. 

And wounded several shutters and some 

CXLIV. 
Under the bed they search'd, and there they 
found — [sought; 

No matter what — it was not that they 
They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said 
nought; 
And then they stared each other's faces round: 
'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 
And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 
Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition, Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — " Yes, search and search," 
she cried, 

" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 
It was for this that I became a bride! 

For this in silence I have suffer'd long 
A husband like Alfonso at my side: 

But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 

If there be law or lawyers in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 

" Yes, Don Alfonso! husbana now no more. 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Is't worthy of your years? you have three- 
score — 



I Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same — 
Is't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 

' For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so? 

CXLVII. 

'< Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
The common privileges of my sex? 

That I have chosen a confessor so old 
And deaf, that any other it would vex, 

And never once he has had cause to scold, 
But found my very innocence perplex 

So much, he always doubted I was married — ■ 

How sorry you will be when I've miscarried! 

CXLVIII. 

• 
" Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of 
Seville? 
Is it for this I scarce went anywhere. 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, [revel? 

I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?* 

CXLIX. 

** Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? 

Did not his countryman. Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 

Were there not also Russians, English, many? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain. 

And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last 
year. 

CL. 

" Have I not had two bishops at my feet? 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez; 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and 

cock'd trigger. 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 

CLI. 

** Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
! Under pretence of business indispensable, 
jWith that sublime of rascals, your attorney, 
j Whom I see standing there, and looking 
I sensible 

I * Donna Julia has made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
\ did not take Algiers, but Algiers very nearly took him : 
he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
not much credit, from before that city, in the year 1775. 



6o8 



DON yUAN. 



1819. 



Of having play'd ihe fool? Though both I 
spurn, he [fensible, 

Deserves the worst: his conduct's less de- 
Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee, 
A.nd not from any love to you nor me. 

CLII. 

" If he comes here to take a deposition. 
By all means let the gentleman proceed: 

You've made the apartment in a fit condition: 
There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you 
need — 

Let everything be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 

But, as my maid's undrest, pray turn your 
spies out." [eyes out." 

** OhI" sobb'd Antonia, *< I could tear their 

CLIII. 

<* There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber — search them under, over; 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 
The chimney — which would really hold a 
lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise, till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure; 

And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that 
pleasure. 

CLIV. 

** And now, Hidalgo! now that you have 
Doubt upon me, confusion over all, [thrown 

Pray have the courtesy to make it kno-^n 
Who is the man you search for? how d'ye 
call [shown : 

Him? what's his lineage? let him but be 
I hope he's young and handsome — is he tall? 

Tell me; and be assured that, since you stain 

My honor thus, it shall not be in vain. 



A moment at the door, that we may be 
Drest to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 

** And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 
The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 
j 'Twill one day ask you why you used me so. 
:God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! 
iAntonia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?" 

I CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale 
I She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their 

tears. 
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil. 
Waved and o'ershadowing her wan cheek, 
appears [fail, 

Her streaming hair: the black curls strive, but 
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart, 
And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 
The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
And turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused: 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause. 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 



** At least, perhaps, he is not sixty years. 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

(J)r for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
(Antonia! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears. 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 

My mother dream'd not, in my natal hour, 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 

** Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous: 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side, 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows: 
Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, 
to hide; 

Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us. 
Or for the sake of decency abide 



With prying snub-nose and small eyes he 
i stood, [there, 

j Following Antonia's motions here and 
iWith much suspicion in his attitude. 
For reputations he had little care; 
So that a suit or action were made good. 

Small pity had he for the young and fair; 
And ne'er believ'd in negatives, till these 
Were proved by competent false witnesses. 



But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much rigor, 

He gain'd no point except some self-rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigor 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy as a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 

To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, 



i8i9. 



DON JUAX. 



And indications of hysterics, whose [throbs,! 
^ Prologue is always certain throes, and 
Gasps, and whatever else the owners chooser 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job*s; 
He saw, too, in perspective, her relations. 
And then he tried to muster all his patience. 



609 



CLXIII. 
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 

The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 

With, "Pray, sir, leave the room, and say 

no more, |-her," 

Or madam dies."— Alfonso mutter'd ** D— n 

But nothing else — the time of words was o'er; 

He cast a rueful look or two, and did. 

He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 
With him retired his ''posse co77iUatus ,'' \ 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 

Antonia let him — not a little sore 
At this most strange and unexplain'd ''hiatus'' 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
An awkward look; as he revolved the case. 
The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and Oh womankind! 
How can you do such things and keep your 

fame, 
^ Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind ? ' 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! 
But to proceed — for there is more behind; 
With much heartfeltjeluctance be it said, [bed. 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the 

CLXVI. 

He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
^ How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 

No doubt, in little compass, round or square; 
But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair: 
'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Torbid by heavenly, fined by human, laws. 

At least 'twas rather early to begin; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil. 
And find a deuced balance with the devil. 



CLXVIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion; 

'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion. 
Prescribed by way of blister, a young belle. 
When old King David's blood grew dull in 

motion, 
{ And that the medicine answer'd very well: 
Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 
I For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

j CLXIX. 

I What's to be done? Alfonso will be back 
I The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 
i But no device could be brought into play. 
I And how to parry the renew'd attack? 
j Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: 
I Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak. 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 

Call'd back the tangles of her wandering 
^ ^^i^» [mand, 

Even then their love they could not all com- 
And half forgot their danger and despair. 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand 

** Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling 
there," 
She whisper'd in great wrath; " I must deposit 
This pretty gentleman within the closet." 

CLXXI. 

Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier 
night — 

Who can have put my master in this mood? 
What will become on't?— I'm in such a fright ! 

The devil's in the urchin, and no good- 
Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in 
blood? ^ 

You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place 
My mistress, all, for that half-girlish face. 

I CLXXII. 

I " Had it but been for a stout cavalier [haste)— 
Of twenty-five or thirty— (Come, make 

But for a child, what piece of work is here! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste 

(Come, sir, get in)— my master must be near: 
There for the present, at the least, he's fast. 

And if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not 
sleep)." 

CLXXIII. 

Now Don Alfonso', entering, but alone. 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid: 
39 



6io 



nox yuAX. 



1819. 



She loiter'd, and he told her to be gofle, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; 

However, present remedy was none, [stay'd; 
And no great good seem'd answer'd if she 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 

Shesnuff'dtlie candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. ; 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun ; 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; j 
He would not justify what he had done; | 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding; | 
But there were ample reasons for it, none 

Of which he specified in this his pleading : 
His speech was a fine sample, on the whole. 
Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call ^^ rigmarole.'' \ 

CLXXV. I 

Julia said nought; though all the while there 
A ready answer, which at once enables [rose 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows. 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose — | 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 

'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds — 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known; 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt con- 
founds — 
But that can't be, as has been often showm, 

A lady with apologies abounds; — 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes 
Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded — [j-wo, 

Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 

Conceal'd amongst his premises; 'tis true. 
His mind the more o'er this its mystery 
brooded: 

To speak of Inez now were, one may say. 

Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough: 

Silence is best; besides, there is a tact — 

(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff. 
But it will serve to keep my verse com- 
pact) — [rough, 

Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather 
A lady always distant from the fact: 

The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 

There's nothing so becoming to tlie face. 



CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them; at least I 
Have always done so; 'tis of no great use, 

In any case attempting a reply. 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they're out of breath, they 

sigh, [loose 

And cast their languid eyes down, and let 

A tear or two, and then we make it up; [sup. 

And then — and then — and;:hen — sit down and 
CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her 
pardon, [granted. 

Which Julia half withheld and then half 
And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 

Denying several little things he wanted: 
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, 

With useless penitence perplex'd and haunt- 
Beseeching she no further would refuse, [ed. 
When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 
A pair of shoes ! — what then ? not much, if they 

Are such as fit with ladies' feet; but these 
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 

Were masculine: to see them, and to seize, 
Was but a moment's act. — Ah! well-a-day! 

My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 
Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 
And then flew out into another passion.. 

CLXXXII. 
He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew, 
" Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake — not a 
word — [through 

The door is open — you may yet slip 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key. Fly — fly — Adieu! 
Haste — haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there's no one in the 
street." 

CLXXXIII. 
None can say that this was not good advice; 

The only mischief was, it came too late; 
Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 

A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: 
Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 

And might have done so by the garden-gale, 
But met Alfonso in his dressing gown, [down. 
Who threaten'd death — so Juan knocked him 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; 
I Antonia cried out "Rape!" andjulia **Fire!" 
I But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
1 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 

Swore lustily he'd l>e revenged this night: 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



6ii 



And Juan,too,blasphemed an octave higher; 
His blood was up; though young, he was a 

Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropped ere he could 
draw it, 

And they continued battling hand to hand, 
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; 

His temper not being under great command. 
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 

Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' 

lives, 
And how ye may be doubly widows — wives! 

CLXXXVI, ' 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 

And Juan throttled him to get away, i 

And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; ' 

At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, i 
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, '\ 

And then his only garment quite gave way : 
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, 
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, 
who found 

An awkward spectacle their eyes before; 
Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning breathless by the door; 
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 

Some blood and several footsteps, but no 
more; 
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 
And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 
Here ends tlris canto. Need I sing, or say, 

How Julian naked, favor'd by the night. 
Who favors what she should not, found his 
way 

And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? 
The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 

The nine days' wonder which was brought 
And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, [to light, 
Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
^ The depositions and the cause at full, 

[I'he names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, 

There's more than one edition, and the readings 
^ Are various, but they none of them are dull: 

The best is that in shorthand, ta'en by Gurney, 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 



CXC. 
But Donna Inez, to divert the train 

Of one of the most circulating scandals 
That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
! At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; 
And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 
I She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea. 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 
I Especially in France and Italy 
(At least this is the thing most people do). 
I Julia was sent into a convent: she [ta/ 

, Grieved, but perhaps her feelings may be bet- 
Shown in the following copy of her letter: — 
I CXCII. 

/* They tell me 'tis decided, you depart: 

'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain: 
I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again; 
To love too much has been the only art 

I used; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears: 
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIII. 
*« I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own 
esteem ; 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost. 

So dear is still the memory of that dream; 
Yet if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast. 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I've nothing to reproach, or to request. 

CXCIV. 
** Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may 
range [mart. 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange . 
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. 
And few there are whom these cannot 
estrange : 
Men have all these resources, we but one. 
To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 
** You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many; all is o'er 
For me on earth, except some years to hide 
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's 
core; 



6ii 



DOA^ yUAX. 



iSlQ. 



I The Vade jMecum of the true sublime, [fools: 
! Which makes so many poets and some 
Prose poets like blank verse, I'm fond of 
I rhyme, [tools; 

' Good workmen never quarrel with their 



These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion which still rages as before — 
And so farewell— forgive me, love me— No; 
That word is idle now — but let it go. 

cxcyi. ! ^^^ mythological machinery, 

^^ My breast has been all weakness, is so yet, . handsome supernatural scenery. 

But still I think I can collect my mind; ^'^^ ^ ^ 

Mv blood still rushes where my spirits set, i CCII. 

As roll the waves before the settled wind; /phere's only one slight difference between 

?,ly heart is feminine, nor can forget— i Me and my epic brethren gone before; 

To all, except one image, madly blind: | ^nd here the advantage is my own, 1 ween 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,! (jsiot that I have not several merits more, 

As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. ' ]3ut this will more peculiarly be seen) : 



CXCVII. 

«' I have no more to say, but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet; 
And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 

My misery can scarce be more complete. 
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; 
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow 
would meet; 
And I must even survive this last adieu. 
And bear with life, to love and pray for you!'' 

CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper. 

With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the 

It trembled as magnetic needles do, [taper. 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 

The seal a sunflower, '' Elle vous suit par-^ 
The motto cut upon a white cornelian; \toiit,'' 
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 
This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but 
whether 
I shall proceed with his adventures is 
Dependent on the public altogether: 

We'll see, however, what they say to this. 
Their favor in an author's cap's a feather. 

And no great mischief's done by their ca- 
And if their approbation we experience, [price ; 
Perhaps they'll have some more about a year 
hence. 

cc. 
My poem's epic, and is meant to be [ing, 



They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
I Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
I Whereas this story's actually true. 



CCIII. 
If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts, 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel 
To plays in five, and operas in three, acts;^ 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 
But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Sa-w Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

cciv. 
If ever I should condescend to prose, 

I'll write poetical commandments, which 
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before; in these I shall enrich 
My text with many things that no one knows. 

And carry precept to the highest pitch: 
I'll call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle; 
Or, Every Poet his o-wn Aristotle." 

CCV. 

Thou Shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope: 
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Cole- 
ridge, Southey; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
The second drunk, the third so quaint and 
mouth ey : 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 
And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat 
drouthy 



ffiTd iX;wfbo:ureach boo\ con^L,n^: Thou shal/n^t steal fro.. Sanu.el ^ 
Wid^ love, and war, a heavy gale at sea. Commit-fl.rtat.on w.th the muse of Moote. 



A list of ships, and captains,and kings reign 
New characters ; the episodes are three : [ing, 

A panoramic view of hell's in training. 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of epic's no misnomer. 

cci. 
All these things will be specified in time. 

With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, 



CCVI. 
Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's muse, 

His Pegasus, nor anything that's his; 
Thou shalt not bear false witness like " th< 
Blues"— 
(There's one, at least, is very fond of this) 
Thou shalt not write,in short,but what I choose 
This is true criticism, and you may kiss— 



I8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



t\'. 



Exactly as you please, or not — the rod; 
But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G-— d! 

CCVII. 
If any person should presume to assert 

This story is not moral, first, I pray 
That they will not cry out before they're hurt. 

Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say 
(But doubtless nobody will be so pert) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay; 
Besides, in Canto Twelfth I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 
If, after all, there should be some so blind 

To their own good, this warning to despise, 
Led by some tortuosity of mind. 

Not to believe my verse, and their own eyes, 
And cry that they " the moral " cannot find, 

I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; 
Should captains the remark, or critics, make. 
They also lie, too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 
The public approbation I expect, [moral, 

And beg they'll take my word about the 
Which I with their amusement will connect 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral) ; 
Meantime they'll doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel; [tish. 
For fear some prudish readers should grow skit- 
I've bribed my grandmother's review — the 
British. 

ccx. 
I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
I'm for a handsome article his creditor; 

Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast. 
And break a promise after having made it her. 

Denying the receipt of what it cost. 
And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 
All I can say is — that he had the money. 

ccxi. 
I think that, with this holy new alliance, 

I may ensure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science, 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their clients. 

Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try. 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quar- 
terly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

** Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa 
Consule Flanco,^'' Horace said, and so 

Say I; by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that, some six or seven good years ago 



(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta), 

I was most ready to return a blow, 
And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
In my hot youth — when George the Third was 
king. 

CCXIII. 
But now, at thirty years, my hair is grey — 

(I wonder what it will be like at forty? 
I thought of a peruke the other day) — 

My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas 
May, 
And feel no more the spirit to retort: I 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invin- 
cible. 

CCXIV. 
No more — no more — Oh! never more on me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew. 
Which out of all the lovely things we see 

Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee: 
Think'st thou the honey with those objects 
grew? 
Alas! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
To double even the sweetness of a flower. 



No 



CCXV. 

re — Oh! 



never more, my 



more — no mc 
heart. 

Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: 
The illusion's gone forever,^and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 
And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment. 
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a 
lodgment. 

ccxvi. 
My days of love are over; me no more* 
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of 
widow. 
Can make the fool of which they made before : 

In short, I must not lead the life I did do; 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er. 

The copious use of claret is forbid, too: 
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
I think I must take up with avarice. 

CCXVII. 
Ambition was my idol, which was broken 

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure; 
And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure: 



*Me nee femina, nee puer 
Jam, nee spes animi credula mutui, 

Nee certare juvat mero ; 
Nee vincire novis tempora floribus. 



6i4 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



Now, like Friar Bacon^s brazen head, I've 
spoken, [mic treasure 

**Time is, Time was, Time's past;" — a chy- 
Is glittering youth, which I have spent be- 
times— 
My heart in passion and my head on rhymes, 

CCXVIII. 
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper: 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill. 

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor : 

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes 

kill, [night taper," 

And bards burn what they call their *' mid- 

To have, when the original is dust, 

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

ccxix. 
What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's king 

Cheops erected the first pyramid. 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
But somebody or other, rummaging, 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes. 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

ccxx. 
But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
Say very often to myself, ** Alas! 



All things that have been born were born to 
die. 
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) 
is grass; 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly. 
And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXI. 
But for the present, gentle reader! and 

Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that's I — 
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
And so your humble servant, and good-bye ! 
We meet again if we should understand 
Each other; and if not, I shall not try 
Vour patience further than by this short sam- 
ple — 
' Twere well if others follow'd my example. 

CCXXII. 
'* Go, little book, from this my solitude! 

I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 

The world will find thee after many days." 
When Southey's read and Wordsworth under- 
stood, 
I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line; 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



1819. 



III. 



ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of na- 

tions, [Spain, 

Holland, France, England, Germany, or 

1 pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 

It mends their morals; never mind the pain: 
The best of mothers and of educations. 

In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain. 
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he 
Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 
Had he been but placed at a public school, 

In the third form, or even in the fourth. 
His daily task had kept his fancy cool. 

At least had he been nurtured in the north; 
Spain may prove an exception to this rule, 

IJut then exceptions always prove its worth — 
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce, 
I'u/./lcd li;^ lulors verv mucli, ul course. 



; I can't say that it p-zzles me at all, 
! If all things be consider'd: first there was 
His lady-mother, mathematical, 

A never mind; — his tutor, an old ass; 

A pretty woman — (that's quite natural, 

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); 
A husband rather old, not much in unity 
With his young wife — a time and opportunity. 

IV. 

'Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis,, 
' And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, , 
And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, , 
And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails;; 
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks 
us. 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales; 
\ little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame. 
Fighting, devotion, dubl — peihaps a name. 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN, 



615 



I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 
A pretty town, I recollect it well — 

'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is 
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel), 

And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful 

ladies, [swell, 

Their very walk would make your bosom 

I can't describe it, though so much it strike. 

Nor liken it — I never saw the like. 



An Arab horse, a stately Stag, a barb 
New broke, a camelopard, a gazelle. 

No — none of these will do ; and then their garb ! 
Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 

Upon such things would very near absorb 
A canto — then their feet and ankles — well, 

Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite 
ready, [steady — 

(And so my sober Muse — come, let's be 

VII. 

Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — 

the veil [hand. 

Thrown back a moment with the glancing 

While the o'erpowering eye,that turns you pale. 

Flashes into the heart: — All sunny land 
Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

. To say my prayers — but never was there 

plann'd [volley, 

A dress through which the eyes give such a 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.* 

VIII. 

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent 
Her son to Cadiz only to embark; 

To stay there had not answer'd her intent. 
But why? — we leave the reader in the dark — 

'Twas for a voyage the young man was meant, 
As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 

To wean him from the wickedness of earth. 

And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money: for four springs 

He was to travel; and, though Inez grieved 
(As every kind of parting has its stings), 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps be- 
lieved: 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it), 
Of good advice, and two or three of credit. 

X. 
In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 

Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school : 

* Fazzioli— literally the little handkerchiefs— the veils 
most availing of St. Mark. 



For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool; 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd, the ship got under way, 

The wind was fair, the water passing rough; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 
As I,who've cross'd it oft, know well enough ; 

And, standing upon deck, the dashing s]))ay 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather- 
tough: 

And there he stood to take, and take again, 

His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 



I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters; it unmans one quite. 
Especially when life is rather new: 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
But almost every other country's blue. 

When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 

We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIIL 
So Juan stood, bewilder'd, on the deck: 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors 
swore, 
And the ship creak'd,the town became a speck, 

From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beefsteak 

Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 



Don Juan stood, and gazing from the stern. 
Beheld his native Spain receding far; 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
Even nations feel this when they go to war; 

There is a sort of unexprest concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave, 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 

So that he had much bett<=*r cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life; 

And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife. 

No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— ^ 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 



6i6 



DOX yCAX. 



U9. 



So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 

By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion: 

I'd weep — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to 
die on: 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves; and the next time their ser- 
vants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and 
thought, [sea, 

While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt 
**Sweetsto the sweet;" (Hike so much to quote; 

You must excuse this extract — 'tis where she, 
The queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 

Flowers to the grave) ; and, sobbing often, he 
Reflected on his present situation. 
And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

** Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell! " he 
cried; 

** Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 

Farewell, my mother! and since all is o'er. 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia! " (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through). 

XIX. 
"And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 

But that's impossible, and cannot be — 
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! 

Or think of anything excepting thee; 
A mind diseased no remedy can physic" — 
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea- 
sick.) 

XX. 

** Sooner shall heaven kiss earth" — (here he 
fell sicker) 

**Oh, Julia! what is every other woe? — 
(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor; 

Pedro, Battista, help me down below) — 
Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 

Oh, Julia! — (this curst vessel pitches so) — 
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching! " 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
Oj rather stomach, which, alas! attends, 



Beyond the best apothecary's art. 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 
Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
I Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 
No doubt he would have been much more 

pathetic, 
But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love's a capricious power: I've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat : 

Against all noble maladies he's bold. 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to m.eet, 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 

About the lower regions of the bowels; 
Love, who heroically breathes a vein. 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels. 
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 

Sea-sickness, death: his love was perfect, 
how else 
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 

XXIV. 
The ship, call'd the most holy *< Trinidada," 

Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; 
For there the Spanish family Moncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 
They were relations, and for them he had a 

Letter of introduction, which the morn 
Of his departure had been sent him by 
His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, [low, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pil- 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headache being increased by eveiy bil- 
low; [made 
And the waves oozing through the porthole 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale; 

And though 'twas not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind; [pale, 
At sunset they began to take in sail, 

For the sky show\i it would come on to blow. 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



617 



XXVII. 

At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 
Threw the ship right into the trough of the 
sea, [rift, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern frame, and, ere she could 
Herself from out her present jeopardy, [lift 

The rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water 
found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 
Upon the pumps, and the remaining set 

To get up part of the cargo, and what not; 
But they could not come at the leak as yet. 

At last they did get at it really, but 
Still their salvation was an even bet; 

The water rush'd through in a way quite puz- 
zling, [of muslin. 

While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales 

XXIX. 

Into the opening; but all such ingredients 
Would have been vain, and they must have 
gone down. 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
But for the pumps: I'm glad to make them 
known [hence. 

To all the brother tars who may have need 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
By them per hour, and they had all been un- 
done, 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in 
use. 
The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
A squall came on, and while some guns 
broke loose, [cends — 

A gust — which all descriptive power trans- 
Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 



There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset; 

The water left the hold, and wash'd the 
decks, 
And made a scene men do not soon forget; 

I'or they remember battles, fires, and wrecks. 
Or any other thing that brings regret, [necks: 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the di- 
vers, [vors. 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survi- 



XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 

Both main and mizzen : first the mizzen went, 
The main-mast foUow'd; but the shi}) still lay 

Like a mere log and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and 

they 

Eased her at last (although \\ e never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted), 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 
It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet. 
That passengers would find it much amiss 
I To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet; 
I That even the able seaman, deeming his 
I Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 
I As upon such occasions tars will ask [cask. 
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the 

XXXIV. 
There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit 
calms. 
As rum and true religion : thus it was. 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
psalms; 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse, harsh waves kept time; fright 
cured the qualms [maws: 

Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devo- 
Clamor'd in chorus to the roaring ocean, [tion, 

XXXV. 
Perhaps more mischief had been done,but for 

Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years. 
Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 

It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, 
As if Death were more dreadful by his dour 

Of fire than water, spite of oaths and lears. 
Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 
Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 
**Give us more grog I" they cried, "for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juananswer'd, '*NoI 
'Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 

But let us die like men, not sink below 
Like brutes;" — and thus his dangerous post 
kept he. 
And none liked to anticipate the blow; 
And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation; 



6i8 



DOX JUAN. 



1819, 



Nothing should tempt him more (this peril 
To quit his academic occupation, [P^st) 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
I'o follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 
But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 
Day broke, and the wind luU'd; the masts 
were gone, [shore, 

The leak increased; shoals round her, but no 
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless 
grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'da 
sail. 

XXXIX. 
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past, 
And for the moment it had some effect; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast. 

Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? 
But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 

'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd: 
And though 'tis true that man can only die 

once, 
'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

' XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and 
from thence. 

Without their will, they carried them away: 
For they were forced with steering to dispense. 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say [luck. 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 
But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could 
hope 

To weather out much longer; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight. 

Nought but the heavy sea and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 

Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some 

bold, [through 

Until the chains and leathers were worn 

(Jf all our pumps; — a wreck c(im])ietc slie 

roll'd 



At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 

Could do no more: he was a man m years. 
And long had voyaged through many a 
stormy sea; 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 

Two things for dying people quite bewild'ring. 
XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 

Of candles to their saints — but there were 

none [bow ; 

To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the 
Some hoisted out the boats: and there vva.s 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, [one 

Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some 
I put on 

I Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; 
i Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore 
their hair; 
And others went on as they had begun, 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
[Unless with breakers close beneath her ke. 
XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition. 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; 
Their stock was damaged by the weather's 
stress; 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutler. 

XLVII. 

; But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
' Some pounds of bread, though injured by 
j Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so, [the wet; 

Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get 
'a portion of their beef up from below. 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, iwet, 
I But scarce enough to serve them for a lunch- 
I eon — [eon. 

'Then there was rum, eight gallons in a punch- 

I XLVIII. 

The othc)- boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
I I^een stove, in the Ijeginning of the g:ile; 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



619 



And the lOng-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 
'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 

Over the waste of waters; like a veil 
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the 
frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was 
shown. 
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, : 
And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had 
Fear j 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft. 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have 
laugh'd. 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have quaff 'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 

Half epileptical and half hysterical: — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, 
spars, [loose. 

And all things, for a chance, had been cast 
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 
There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their 
crews, 
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
And, going down head foremost — sunk, in 
short. 

Lii. I 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — | 

Then shriek'd the timid and stood still the 

brave — ! 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, ' 

As eager to anticipate the grave; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, [wave, 
And tries to strangle him before he die. 

LIII. 
And first one universal shriek there rush'd 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, 

vSavetlie wild wind and the remorseless dash 



Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been ; for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore; 
And then they were too many, though so 
few — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the rest perish'd: near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and what's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls. 

They must wait several weeks before a mass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, [pass, 
Because, till people know what's come to 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place: 

It seemed as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillu's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case; 

Battista, though (a name call'd shortly Tita), 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
Left him so drunk, he jtimp'd into the wave. 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; 

They could not rescue him, although so close. 
Because the sea ran higher every minute. 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel — which had been Don 
J6se's, 

His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 
For on such things tlie memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the 
brink. 
Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!) 

No doubt, the vessel was about to sink: 
And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stuffd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 



620 



DOX JUAX. 



1819. 



Who let him do, in fact, whatever he would, I Survive through very desperate conditions, 
Not knowing what himself to say or do, I Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd; Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: 

But Juan,trustingtliey might still get through. Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And deeming there were remedies f(M- any ill, And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his si^aniel. 

^ LXV. 

^' ' 'Tis said that persons living on annuities 

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiftly yet, | Are longer lived than others— God knows 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, ' why, fit is, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, I Unless to plague the grantors— yet so true 

They dared not take it in for all the breeze:; That some, I really think, do never die: 
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them Qf any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

^vet, [ease,' ^.nd thafs their mode of furnishing. supply : 

And made them bale without a moment's in my young days they lent me cash that way, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

damp'd. 
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 



'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 
Nine souls more went in her; the long-boat still ^I^re than can be believed, or even thought, 



Kept above water, with an oar for mast; 
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: 
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill. 

And present peril all before surpass'd. 
They grieved for those who perish'd with the 

cutter, 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale: to run 
Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 



And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and 
tear: 
And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and 
there ; 
She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Arg0, 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, [day; 

And must have meals, at least one meal a 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 

But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 



\Yas all that for the present could be done:! Although his anatomical construction 



A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 

Were served out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the 

bags. 
And most of them had little clothes but rags. 



Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 
Your laboring people think, beyond all ques- 
tion, 
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 
For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might 
renew, 
And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
though numb'd with the Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 
[place, Of ocean, when they woke they felt acjualm. 



LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
Which left scarce room for motion or exer 
tion: 
They did their best to modify their case. 
One half sate up " 
immersion. 



While t'other half were laid down in their^ And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
At watch and watch; thus shivering like the Instead of hoarding it with due precision 
tertian 
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 
With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 

LXIV. 
'Tis very certain the desire (jf life 

Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians. 
When patients, neither plagued with friends 
nor wife. 



The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They ate up all they had, and drank their 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then [wine. 
On what, in fact, next day they were to dine? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish 

men, [fine. 

And carry tiiem to shore; these hopes were 



i8i9. 



DON yUAN, 



621 



But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 
It would have been more wise to save their 
victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd 
child; 
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and 
mild — 
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do? and hunger's rage 
grew wild; 
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 
Was kiird,and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 
On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 

And Juan, who had still refused, because 
The creature was his father's dog that died. 

Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 
With some remorse received (though first de- 
nied). 

As a great favor, one of the fore- paws, 
Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 
Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning 
sun [the sea, 

Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on 
They lay like carcases; and hope was none. 

Save in the breeze that came not: savagely 
They glared upon each other — all was done. 

Water, and wine, and food — and you might 
The longings of the cannibal arise [see 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round. 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, [sound : 
An ominous, and wild, and desperate 

And when his comrade's thought each suf- 
ferer knew, [found : 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood. 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 



But ere they came to this, they that day shared 

Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of 

shoes; [spair'd, 

And then they look'd around them, and de- 

And none to be the sacrifice would choose: 

At length the lots were torn up, and prepared. 

But of materials that must shock the 

Muse — 



Having no paper, for the want of better, 
They took by force from Juan, Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, 
and handed 
In silent horror, and their distribution [ed, 
Lull'deven the savage hunger which demand- 
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution. 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
I And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 

The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath. 
You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died, as born, a Catholic in faith, [bred; 
Like most, in the belief in which they're 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 
LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; 

But being thirstiest at the moment he 

Preferred a draught from the fast-flowing 
veins: 

Part was divided, part throw^n in the sea. 
And such things as the entrails and the 
brains [billow — 

Regaled two sharks who follow'd o'er the 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four. 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food; 

To these were added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increase much more; 
'Twas not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster. 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'Twas better that he did not; for in fact. 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they who were most ravenous in the act. 

Went raving mad — Lord! how they did 

blaspheme! [rack'd. 

And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream; 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, 
swearing. 

And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this in- 
fliction, [knows; 
And all the rest were thin enough. Heaven 



622 



bON JUAN. 



1819. 



And some of them had lost their recollection, 
Happier than they who still perceived their 
woes; 

l^ut others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 

Yox having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 

As fattest; but he saved himself, because, 
l^esides being much averse from such a fate. 

There were some other reasons : the first was. 
He had been rather indisposed of late; 

And that which chiefly proved his saving 
clause, 
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 
Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 

But was used sparingly, — some were afraid. 
And others still their appetites constrain'd. 

Or but at times a little supper made; 
All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 

Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 
At length they caught two boobies and a 

noddy. 
And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 
Remember Ugolino condescends 

To eat the head of his arch enemy,* 
The moment after he politely ends 

His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea 
'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends. 

When shipwreck's short allowance grows too 
scanty, 

Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXI V. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 

For which their mouths gaped, like the 

* cracks of earth [P^^r^j 

When dried to summer dust; till taught by 
Men really know not what good water's 
worth : 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's crew had your 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, [berth, 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no 
richer. 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. 
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 

* \iz.x\\.^^% Iv/erno, Canto 30, v. 60. 



And when they deem'd its moisture was 
complete. 
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught 
so sweet 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking. 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of 
drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody 
crack, [stream'd; 

Suck'd in the moisture which like nectar 
Their throats were ovens, their swolPn tongues 
were black. 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop hadseem'd 
To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, 
Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

! LXXXVII. 

j There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
I And with them their two sons, of whom the 
! Was more robust and hardy to the view, [one 

But he died early; and when he was gone, 
! His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, ** Heaven's 
will be done: 
I can do nothing;" and he saw him thrown 
Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 
Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate; 

But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
And patient spirit held aloof his fate: 

Little he said, and now and then he smiled 
As if to win a part from off the weight 

He saw increasing on his father's heart, [part 

With the deep deadly thought that they must. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the 
foam 
P>om his pale lips, and ever on him gazed; 
And when the wished- for shower at length 
was come, [^^lazed. 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull fiini half 
Brighten'd and for a moment seeniM tu roam. 
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of 

rain 
Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 

XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay. 

And look'd upon it long; and when at last 
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 



i8i9. 



DON yUAN. 



623 



Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were 

He watch'd it wistfully, until away [past, 

Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas 

cast; [shivering. 

Then he himself sunk down all dumb and 

And gave no signs of life, save his limbs 

quivering. 

XCI. 
Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the 
dark sea. 
Resting its bright base on the quivering blue. 

And all within its arch appear'd to be 
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 

Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free. 

Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and 

then [men. 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd 

XCII. 
It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon. 

The airy child of vapor and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion. 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 

And blending every color into one, 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle [fle). 
(For sometimes we must box without the muf- 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good 
omen — 

It is as well to think so now and then: 
'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again. 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like 
Quite a pelestial kaleidoscope. [hope — 

xciv. 
About this time a beautiful white bird, 

Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage (probably it might have err'd 

Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
Night fell — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 
But in this case I also must remark, 

'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, 
Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark ! 

Was not so safe for roosting as a church; 
And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 

Returning there from her successful search, 
Which in their way that moment chanced to 

fall. 
They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 



With twilight it again came on to blow, 
But not with violence; the stars shone out, 

The boat made way; yet now they were so low 
They knew not where nor what they were 
about: 

wSome fancied they saw land, and some said 

**No!" [doubt— 

The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to 

Some swore that they heard breakers, others 

And all mistook about the latter once, [guns, 

XCVII. 
As morning broke, the light wind died away. 
When he who had the watch sung out and 
swore, 
If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
He wish'dthat land he never might see more; 
And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay. 
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course 
for shore; 
For shore it was, and gradually grew 
Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 
And then of these some part burst into tears. 

And others, looking with a stupid stare. 
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 
And seem'd as if they had no further care; 
While a few pray'd — (the first time for some 
years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep: they shook them by the hand and 
head, [dead. 

And tried to waken them, but found them 

xcix. 
The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 

They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 
And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her. 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 

Because it left encouragement behind: 
They thought that in such perils, more than 

chance 
Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

C. 
The land appear'd a high and rocky coast. 

And higher grew the mountains as they drew. 
Set by a current toward it; they were lost 

In various conjectures, for none knew 
To what part of the earth they had been tost, 

So changeable had been the winds that blew : 
Some thought it was Mount ^tna, some the 

highlands 
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 

CI. 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 



624 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale;| The beach which lay before him, high and 

Their living freight was now reduced to four, ' dry : 

And three dead, whom their strength could The greatest danger liere was from a shark, 
not avail That carried off his neighbor by the thigh; 

To heave into the deep with those before. As for the other two, they could not swim, 
Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

dash'd ' cvii. 

The spray into thor faces as they splash'd. | ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^j^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ 

cii. j Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
done [them toi And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 



Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd 



'twas dash'd 



Such things, ^ mother had not known her son Within his grasp: he clung to it, and sore 



1g; 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew: 
By night chilPd, by day scorch'd, thus one by 
one 
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few. 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 
As they drew nigh the land, which now was 



The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, 

he [sea. 

Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he 

clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave. 



Unequal in its aspect here and there, [seen 1 p^.^^^^ ^^j^^^^ reluctant roar his life he wrung. 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, | g^ould suck him back to her insatiate grave: 
•That waved m foresttops, and smooth'dthe|A.nd there he lay full length, where he was 
^^^» I flung, 

And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen ; -^^^^^^ ^^e entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 



From glistening waves, and skies so hot and 
bare — 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, 

And girt by formidable waves; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they 
ran 



cix. 
With slow and staggering effort he arose. 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand: and then he look'd for 
those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea; 



Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay :!«"' "°"^ °^ ^^^""^ appearM to share his woes 

_ ° ° , , P - •' Save nnp. a rnrn«;f». frniTi ont thp f;?nii«h'H 



A reef between them also now began [spray; 
To show its boiling surf and bounding 
But finding no place for their landing better. 
They ran the boat for shore — and overset her. 

cv. 
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 

Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river. 

Had often turn'd the art to some account: 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hel- 
lespont, 
As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 
So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark. 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to 
ply [dark. 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was 



Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd 
three. 
Who died two days before, and now had found 
An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 
And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 

And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand 
Swam round and round, and all his senses 
pass'd: 

He fell upon his side, and hisstretch'd hand 
Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast); 

And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in this damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood and senses dim: 



i8i9. 



DOI^ JUAN. 



625 



And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and 

limb, [life, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired 

with strife. 

CXII. 
His eyes he openM, shut, again unclosed. 

For all was doubt and dizziness; bethought 
He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 

And felt again with his despair o'erwrought. 
And wish'dit death in which he had reposed; 
And then once more his feelings back were 
brought, 
And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 
'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small 
mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; 
And, chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from 
death; 
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 

Each pulse to animation, till, beneath 
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

cxiv. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 

Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair 

arm [hung; 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it 

And her transparent cheek, all pure and 

warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead: then she 

wrung [storm; 

His dewy curls, long drench'd by every 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that 

drew 
A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

cxv. 
And lifting him with care into the cave. 

The gentle girl and her attendant — one 
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave. 

And more robust of figure — then begun 
To kindle fire; and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the 
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er [sun 
She was, appear'd, distinct, and tall, and fair. 

cxvi. 

Her brow was o'erhung with coins of gold. 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were 
roll'd [were 

In braids behind; and though her stature 



Even of the highest for a female mould. 

They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air 
There was a something which bespoke com- 
As one who was a lady in the land. [mand^ 

CXVII. 
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes 
Were black as death, their lashes the same 
hue, 
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 

Deepest attraction; for when to the view 
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew : 
'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his 

length. 
And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure 

Like twilight, rosy still with the set sun ; [dye 
Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 

Ever to have seen such : for she was one 
Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 
I've seen much finer women, ripe and real. 
Than all their nonsense of the stone ideal). 

cxix. 
I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 

One should not rail without a decent cause: 
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
A frequent model; and if e'er she must [laws. 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling 
They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel 
wrought. 

cxx. 
And such was she, the lady of the cave; 

Her dress was veiy diff'erent from the Span- 
Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave; [ish. 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while 

wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
The basquina and the mantilla, they 
Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXT. 
But with our damsel this was not the case; 

Her dress was many-colored, finely spun; 
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely 
shone; 
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand; but what was 

shocking, [stocking. 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no 

40 



626 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



CXXII. 
The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials: she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, [free; 

Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less 
Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
CXXII I. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him 
both [attentions 

With food and raiment, and those soft 
Which are — (as I must own) — of female 
growth, 

And have ten thousand delicate inventions: 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 
But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since 

Homer's 
Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

cxxiv. 
I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 

Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; 
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize; 
And so, in short, the girls they really were 

They shall appear before your curious eyes. 
Mistress and maid : the first was only daughter 
Of an old man who lived upon the water. 

cxxv. 
A fisherman he had been in his youth. 

And still a sort of fisherman was he; 
But other speculations were, in sooth. 

Added to his connection with the sea, 
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth: 

A little smuggling, and some piracy. 
Left him at last the sole of many masters 
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

cxxvi. 
A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men. 

Like Peter the apostle — and he fish'd 
For wandering merchant vessels now and then, 

And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

cxxvii. 
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
A very handsome house from out his guilt. 

And there he lived exceedingly at ease: 
Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he 

A sad old fellow was he, if you please; [spilt, 



But this I know, it was a spacious building, 
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

cxxviii. 
He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 

The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles; 
Besides, so very beautiful w^as she. 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree, 

She grew to womanhood, and between 
Rejected several suitors, just to learn [whiles 
How to accept a better in his turn. 

cxxix. 

And walking out upon the beach, below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she 

Insensible — not dead, but nearly so — [found, 
Don Juan, almost famish'd and half drown'd; 

But being naked, she was shock'd, you know. 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound. 

As far as in her lay, <* to take him in, 

A stranger " dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save, 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave; 

Because the good old man had so much vov^'- 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 

He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

cxxxi. 
And therefore, with her maid, she thought it 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) best 
To place him in the cave for present rest: 

And when at last he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increas'd about their guest; 

And their compassion grew to such a size. 
It open'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
(St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be given.) 

CXXXI I. 
They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 

Upon the moment could contrive with such 
Materials as were cast up round the bay, — 
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the 
touch 
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch: 
But by God's grace, here wrecks were in such; 

plenty, 
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty; 

CXXXIII. 
He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 
His couch; and lliai he mijjht be more at ease 



iSi9. 



DON JUAN. 



627 



And warm, in case by chance he should 
They also gave a petticoat apiece, [awake, | 

She and her maid, — and promised by day- 
To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish [break 
For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

cxxxiv. 
And thus they left him to his lone repose: 

Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 
Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows). 

Just for the present; and in his luU'd head 
Not even a vision of his former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which some- 
times spread 
Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

cxxxv. 
Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid, 

Whosmooth'dhis pillow, as she left the den 
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 

And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said 

(The heart will slip even as the tongue and 
pen), 
He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
cxxxvi. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two's an age when rightly spent. 
And Zoe spent hers as most women do. 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college, 
cxxxvii. i 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering' 
still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
His rest; the rushing of the neighboring rill, 
And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
Had suffer'd more; — his hardships were com- 
parative 
To those related in my grandad's Narrative.* 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 

And started firom her sleep, and, turning 

o'er, [stumbled, 

Dream'd of a thousand wrecks o'er which she 

* "The Narrative of the Honorable John Byron 
(Commodore in a late expedition round the world), con- 
taining an account of the great distresses suffered by 
himself and his companions on the coast of Patagonia, 
from the year 1740 till their arrival in England, 1746." 
This celebrated Narrative was published in 1768. 



And handsome corpses strewed upon th^ 

shore; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 

And call'd her father's old slaves up, who 

swore [Greek — 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and 

They knew not what to think of such a freak. 

cxxxix. 
But up she got, and up she made them get. 

With some pretence about the sun, that 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set: [makes 

And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see, when 

breaks [wet 

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are 

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 

And night is flung off like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband — or some other brute. 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 

I have sat up on purpose all the night. 

Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; 

And so all ye who would be in the right 
In health and purse, begin your day to date 

From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore. 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose 
race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base. 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread. 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 

And down the cliff the island virgin came, 
And near the cave her quick light footsteps 
drew. 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister; just the same [two, 
Mistake you would have made on seeing the 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 

Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 

CXLIII.. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 

That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 

(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept, 
And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, 

Should reach his blood; then o'er him, still as 
death, [drawn breath. 

Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scare*' 



628 



DON JUAM. 



1819 



CXLIV. 

And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying, | 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and] 

there | 

All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: I 

But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, ! 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair ! 

Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should 
ask it, 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings must have vic- 
tual, [be; 
• And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry 
Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighljoring 
sea; 
And so she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle; 

I can't say that she gave them any tea; 
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, 

honey. 
With Scio wine — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
The coffee made, would fain have waken'd 
Juan; [hand. 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 
Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand; 
And the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a 
new one. 
Because her mistress would not let her break 
That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er 
awake. 

CXLVII. 
For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 

A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 
On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak 

Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay. 

Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, 

and weak; 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray. 

Which vveigh'd upon them yet, all damp and 

Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault, [salt, 

^ CXLVIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
llush'das the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can 
breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath. 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow, [low. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yel- 



CXLIX. 

lie woke, and gazed, and would have slep: 
again. 

But the fair face which met his eyes forbadt 
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pair 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made 
For woman's face was never form'd in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he pray'd. 
He turn'd from grisly saints and martyrs hairy 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose. 

And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak : 

Here eyes were eloquent, her words would pose 
Although she told him in good modern Greek 

W^ith an Ionian accent low and sweet. 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word. 
Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, 

And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 
That sort of sound we echo with a tear, 

Without knowing why — an overpowering ton< 

Whence melody descends as from a throne. 

CLII. 

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
By a distant organ, doubting if he be 

Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
By the watchman, or some such reality, 

Or by one's early valet's cursed knock: 
At least it is a heavy sound to me. 

Who like a morning slumber — for the night 

Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his drean 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite: the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneelinj 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake, 

And long for food, but chiefly a beefsteak, 

CLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 
Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid,ar 
mutton; 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put 01 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles 
For some of these are rocks with scarce 
hut on; 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



629 



Others are fair and fertile, among which, 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 
I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur — [ing, 
From which our modern morals, rightly shrink- 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more. 
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 
CLVI, 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here: 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
His head upon his elbow, and he saw 

A sight on which he had not lately gazed. 
As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 

Three or four things, for which the Lord be 
praised; 
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw. 

He fell upon whate'er was ofifer'd, like 

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied; and she. 
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have 
fed j^see 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead; 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst. 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, [case 
Rather by deeds than words, because the 

Was urgent, that the gentleman whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel. 

Saying he had gorged enough to make ahorse 
ill. 

CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 

Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 
And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd. 



And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
Or Greek — that is, although it not much 
matter'd. 

Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk: — 
They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches. 
With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at 
speaking, 

But not a word could Juan comprehend. 
Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 

Her earnestness would ne'er have made an 
And, as he interrupted not, went eking [end; 

Her speech out to her protege and friend. 
Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 
She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye. 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines. 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply; 

And thus in every look she saw exprest 

A world of words, and things at which she 
guess'd. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes. 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue: but by surmise. 
No doubt, less of her language than her look ; 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book; 

Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 

By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 
When both the teacher and the taught are 
young. 
As was the case at least where I have been; 
They smile so when one's right, and when 
one's wrong [vene 

They smile still more, and then there inter- 
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste 
I learn'd the little that I know by this, [kiss; — 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and 
Italian not at all, having no teachers :[Greek, 

Much English I cannot pretend to speak. 
Learning that language chiefly from its 
preachers, 

Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 

Of eloquence in piety and prose; — 

I hate your poets, so read none of thos^. 



630 



DOiX yUAA\ 



1819. 



As for the ladies, I have nought to say: 
A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 

Where I, like other *' dogs, have had my day," | 
Like other men, too, may have had my pas- 



But that, like other things, has pass'd away, ' 

And all her fools whom I could \2iy the lash j 

on: [me, I 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun. 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut. 

More than within the bosom of a nun: 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress — so was she. 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVIII. 

And every day by day-break — rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

She came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly. 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest. 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth. 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south, 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his color freshlier came. 
And every day help'd on his convalescence: 

'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness topassion^s flame [sons 
Are oil and gunpowder; and some good les- 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart (without heart, 
really, [good). 

Love, though good always, is not quite so 
Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli — [blood — 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and 
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a 

Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food; [jelly: 
But who is their purveyor from above, [Jove. 
Heaven knows — it may be Neptune, Pan, or 

CLXXI. 

When Juan woke, he found some good things 
ready, 

A Ijath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 

Besides her maid's, as j^retty for their size. 
But I have spoken of all this already — 



And repetition's tiresome and unwise, — 
Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea. 
Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent. 
That bathing pass'd for nothing : Juan seem'd 

To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, 
Of whom these two years she had nightly 
dream'd, 

A something to be loved, a creature meant 
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 

To render happy: all who joy would win 

Must share it — Happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To watch him slumbering, and to see him 
To live with him forever were too much ; [wake : 

But then the thought of parting made her 
quake. 
He was her ow^n, her ocean-treasure, cast 
Like a rich WTeck — her first love, and her last. 

CLXXIV. 
And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook; 
At last her father's prows put out to sea. 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry ofl" an lo. 
But three Ragusan vessels bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, , 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, , 

Without even the encumbrance of a brother. 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass: 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, , 

Where wives at least are seldom kept in gar- 
rison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk; 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from i 
the stalk, 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay: 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon. 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 'I 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast. 
With cliff's above, and a broad sandy shore, 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



631 



Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect 

A better welcome to the tempest-tost; [wore 
And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which 
make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your cham- 
pagne, [reach. 
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers 
The spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain I 
Few things surpass old wine; and they may 
preach [in vain — 
Who please — the more because they preach 
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laugh- 
Sermons and soda-water the day after. [ter, 

CLXXIX. 
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 
The hopes of all men, and of every nation: 
Without their sap, how branchless were the 
trunk 
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: 
But to return — Get very drunk: and when 
You wake with headache, you shall see what 
then. 

CLXXX. 
Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 

Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know 
A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king : 

For not the blesc sherbet sublimed with 
snow, 
Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 

Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 
After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 
Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 



The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky. 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost. 

And all was stillness save the sea-bird's cry. 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 

By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone. 
As I have said, upon an expedition; 

And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 

She waited on her daily with the sun, 



I Thought daily service was her only mission. 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long 

tresses. 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it 
bounded. 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky, 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in 

hand. 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 
Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were 

plann'd. 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells. 
They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an 

arm. 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below. 
Whence the broad moon rose circling into 
sight; [low. 

They heard the waves splash, and the wind so 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this. 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss. 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love, 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above: 
Such kisses as belong to early days. 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert 
move. 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I I think, it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By length I mean duration; theirs endured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt they 
never reckon'd; 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second: 
They had not spoken; but they felt allured. 
As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd^ 



632 



DON JUAN. 



1819. 



Which, b ing join'd, like swarming bees they 

clung — [sprung. 

Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 

CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, but not alone as they 

Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; 
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that 

lay 

Around them, made them to each other press. 

As if there were no life beneath the sky, 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 

They felt no terrors from the night; they were 
All in all to each other; though their speech 

Was broken words, they //z^w^/// a language 
there; 
And all the burning tongues the passions teach 

Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all [fall. 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her 
cxc. 
Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor offer'd any; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse. 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 

And she was worshipp'd; after nature's 
fashion, 
Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that pas- 
sion — 
But by degrees their senses were restored, 

Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; 
And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 
Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 
Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, 

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
Was that in which the heart is always full. 

And, having o'er itself no further power. 
Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 
Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 
Alas for Juan and Haidee! they were 
So loving and so lovely — till then never, 



Excepting our first parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of beingdamn'd forever: 
And Haid6e, being devout as well as fair, 

Had doubtless heard about the Stygian river, 
And hell, and purgatory — but forgot 
Just in the very crisis she should not. 

cxciv. 
They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm 
clasps 
Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps: 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs. 

He hers, until they end in broken gasps; 
And thus they form a group that's quite antique. 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

cxcv. 
And when those deep and burning moments 
pass'd, 

And Juan sank to sleep within her arms. 
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 

Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms: 
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast. 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now 
warms, 
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pant? 
With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

cxcvi. 
An infant when it gazes on the light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the Plost in sight. 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest. 
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping, 
As they who watch o'^er what they love while 
sleeping. 

cxcvii. 
For there it lies, so tranquil, so beloved: 

All that it hath of life with us is living; 
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 

And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving. 
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's 
diving: 
There lies the thing we love, with all its errors, 
And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIII. 
The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's soli* 
tude, 
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
I Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude, 
She and her wave-worn love had made their 
I bower [trude; 

Where nought upon their passion could in' 



i8i9. 



DON JUAN. 



^ZZ 



And all the stars that crowded the blue space, 
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 
Alas, the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown. 

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone. 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 
They are right: for man to man so oft unjust. 

Is always so to women : one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust: 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts de- 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust [spond 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests be- 
yond? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over. 

CCI. 
Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers. 

Some mind their household, others dissipa- 
tion: 
Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 

Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; 
Few changes e'er can better their affairs. 

Theirs being an unnatural situation, 
From the dull palace to the dirty hovel; 
Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 

ecu. 
Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this; 

Haidee was passion's child, born where the 

sun [kiss 

Showers triple light, and scorches even the 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 

Elsewhere was nothing. — She had nought to 

fear, \_here. 

Hope, care, nor love beyond — her heart beat 

CCIII. 
And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How much it costs us! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat [tough job 

Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a 
To make us understand each good old maxim. 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 
And r.ow 'twas done — on the lone shore were 
plighted [shed 

Their hearts; the stars,their nuptial torckes, 



Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: 

Ocean their witness, andthe cave their bed, 
By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 

Their priest was Solitude, and they were 
wed: 
And they wer^ happy, for to their young eyes 
Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

ccv. 
Oh, Love, of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave; 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose 

grave [ter — 

All those may leap who rather would be neu^ 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh, Love! thou art the veiy god of evil; 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

ccvi. 
Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state pre- 
carious, 
Andjestest with the brows of mightiest men; 
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
Have much employ'd the muse of history's 
pen: [ous, 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely vari- 

Such worthies Time will never see again; 
Yet to these four in three things the same luck 
holds, [olds. 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuck- 

CCVII. 

Thou mak'st philosophers; there's Epicurus 
And Aristippus, a material crew! 

Who to immoral courses would allure us 
By theories quite practicable, too; 

If only from the devil they would ensure us, 
How pleasant were the maxim (not quite 
new), [us?" 

** Eat, drink, and love; what can the rest avail 

So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 
But Juan! had he quite forgotten. Julia? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question, but no doubt the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Strong palpitation rises, 'tis her boon. 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human crea- 
tures ? 

CCIX. 

I hate inconstancy; I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure, the mortal made 

Of such quicksilver clay, that in his breast 
No permanent foundation can be laid: 

Love, constant love, has been my constant 
guest: 



634 



VOX JUAN, 



1821. 



And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

ccx. 
But soon Philosophy came to my aid, [tie!" 

And whisper'd, ** Think of every sacred 
" I will, my dear Philosophy!'* I said, 

** But then her teeth, and then, O Heaven, 
I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, [her eye! 

Or neither — out of curiosity." 
** Stop !" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, 
(though she was masqued then as a fair Ve- 

" netian). 

CCXI. 

"Stop!" So I stopped. — But to return : that 
which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration, due where Nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favor'd object: and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of admiration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the beau ideal. 

CCXII. 

'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 
A fine extension of the faculties, 

Platonic, universal, wonderful, [the skies. 
Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through 

Without which life would be extremely dull; 
In short, it is the use of our own eyes. 

With one or two small senses added, just 

To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 



In the same object graces quite as killing 

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, [ling 
'Twould save us many a heartacne, many a shil- 
(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve); 
Whereas, if one sole lady pleased forever. 
How pleasant for the heart as well as liver! 

CCXIV. 
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven. 

But changes night and day, too, like the sky : 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 

And darkness and destruction as on high: 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, 

and riven. 

Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to 

tears. 
Which make the English climate of our years. 

ccxv. 
The liver is the lazaret of bile. 

But very rarely executes its function; 
For the first passion stays there such a while. 
That all the rest creep in and form a junction. 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil. 
Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, com- 
punction. 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail. 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 
" central." 

CCXVI. 
In the meantime, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before. 

That being about the number I'll allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; 

And laying down my pen, I make my bow. 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



1821. 



Plail, Muse! et cetera. — We left Juan sleeping, 

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, [ing. 
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weep- 

And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest 
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 

Or know who rested there, a foe to rest 
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to 
tears ! 

II. 
Oh, Lrve! what is it, in this world of ours, 

Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah! why 



With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy 
bowers. 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh? 
As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 
And place them on their breast — but place 
to die — 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish, 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 
In her first passion, woman loves her lover; 

In all the others all she loves is love, 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over 
And fits hf)r loosely — like an easy glove, 



l82I. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



As you may find, whene'er you like to prove 
her. 
One man alone at first her heart can move; 
She then prefers him in the plural number, 
Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; 

But one thing's pretty sure: a woman 
planted — 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 

After a decent time must be gallanted: 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had 

none. 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 

V. 
'Tis melancholy and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine. 

Although they both are born in the same 
clime. 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor, 
Down to a very homely household savor. 

VI. 

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere. 
Between their present and their future state; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Is used until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 
The same things change their names at such 
a rate; 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; 

They sometimes also get a little tired 
(But that, of course, is rare) , and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired. 
Yet 'tis so " nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 

Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was 

adorning [irig. 

Our days, and put one's servants into mourn- 

VIII. 

There's doubtless something in domestic 
doings. 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; 

Romances paint at full length people's woo- 
But only give a bust of marriages : [ings, 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooingp. 
There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss. 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife. 

He would have written sonnets all his life? 



IX. 
All tragedies are finish'd by a death; 

All comedies are ended by a marriage: 
The future states of both are left to faith. 

For authors fear description might disparage 
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 

And then both worlds would punish their 
miscarriage; [ready. 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection [are 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, 
Dante* and Milton, f and of both the afl'ection 

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve [mar); 
Were not drawn from their spouses, you con- 
ceive. 

XI. 
Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology. 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy; [he 
Unless, indeed, it was from his own knowledge 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why: 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married; but 
The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful; 

'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy — happy in the illicit 
Indulgence of their innocent desires; 

But more imprudent grown with every visit, 
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's; 

When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it, 
At least in the beginning, ere one tires: 

Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 

Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 



Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation; 



* Dante calls his wife, in the Inferno, '* La fiera 
mogUe." 

t Milton's first wife ran away from him within the first 
month. If she had not, what would John Milton bavt 
done ? 



636 



DON JUAN. 



1821. 



For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation; 
. But he, more modest, took a hum])ler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 
The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
By winds and waves, and some inportant 
captures, 
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd. 
Although a squall or two had damp'd his 
raptures, 
By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters. 
In number'd lots; they all had cuffs and collars; 
And averaged each from ten to a hundred 
dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots: some he sold 
, To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 

Toss'd overboard, unsaleable (being old); 
The rest — save here and there some richer one, 

Reserved for future ransom — in the hold. 

Were link'd alike; as for the common people. 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli, [he 

xvu. 

\, The merchandise was served in the same way, 

Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 
Except some certain portions of the prey, 

Light classic articles of female want, 
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot. 

Guitars and castanets from Alicant, [tray. 
All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw. 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens. 

He chose from several animals he saw — 
A terrier, too, which once had been a Brit- 

Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, [on's. 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a 
pittance; 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 

He caged in one huge hamper all together. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs. 

Despatching single cruisers here and there. 

His vessel having need of some repairs, [fair 
He shaped his course to where his daughter 

Continued still her hospitable cares; 

But that part of the coast being shoal and 
bare, [mile, 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 



And there he went ashore without delay, 

Having no custom-house nor quarantine 
To ask him awkward questions on the way, 

About the time and place where he had been; 
He left his ship to be hove down next day, 

With orders to the people to careen; 
So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and trea- 
I sure. 

XXI. 
Arriving at the summit of a hill [home, 

I Which overlook'd the white walls of his 
He stopp'd — What singular emotions fill 
i Their bosoms who have been induced to 
I roam ! 

With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost. 
And bring our hearts back to their starting- 
post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to 
i After long travelling by land or water, [sires, 
I Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
I A female family's a serious matter; 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much ad- 
I mires — 

■ But they hate flattery, so I never flatter;) 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow sub- 
I tier, [ler. 

I And daughters sometimes run off with the but- 
, XXIII. 

An honest gentleman, at his return, 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn. 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
To his memory — and two or three young 
misses [riches — 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and 

And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and, the lady growing wiser. 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her; 

And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 

XXV. 

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaiso7i of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady — 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 



lB2l. 



DON yUAN. 



637 



To last — of all connections the most steady, 
And the true Hymen (the first's but a 

screen) — 
Yet, for all that, keep not too long away, 
IVe known the absent wrong'd four times a 

day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad. 
Or that of any other strong emotion; 

He loved his child, and would have wept the 
loss of her. 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
The distant dog-bark; and perceived, be- 
tween 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun. 
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various 

Of color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies, [dyes 

XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears. 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling. 

He hears — alas! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears. 
The cause being past his guessing or un- 
riddling; 

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing. 
Descending rather quickly the declivity. 

Through the waved branches, o'er the green 
sward glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial. 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And, further on, a troop of Grecian girls. 
The first and tallest her white kerchief wav- 
ing, 
Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
Link'd hand in hand, and dancing: each 
too having [curls — 

Down her white neck long floating auburn 



(The least of which would set ten poets 
raving) : 
Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their 
trays, 

Small social parties just began to dine; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine. 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase: 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine; 
The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their 
mellow store. 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with 
flowers; 

While, peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head, majestically tame. 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow, as if in act to butt, and then. 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back 
again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles and glittering dresses. 

Their large black eyes and soft seraphic 

cheeks, [tresses, 

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that 
speaks. 

The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks: 

So that the philosophical beholder [older. 

Sigh'd for their sakes,that they should e'er grow 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers. 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales. 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad 

ails, [ers. 

Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knock- 

Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, [fact). 

Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
For the imagination or the senses, 

Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the 
Persian, 
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is : 

But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 



638 



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182 1. 



r 



Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 



Ah! what is man? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals, even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron. 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner: 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner: 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 



He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with his sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd; 

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes; 

In fact, much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know (alas! how men will lie) 
That a report (especially the Greeks) 

Avouch'd his death (such people never die), 
And put his house in mourning several 
weeks — 

But now their eyes and also lips were dry: 
The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's 
cheeks. 

Her tears, too, being return'd unto their fount. 

She now kept house upon her own account. 



Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and 
fiddling, [ure: 

Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleas- 
The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond 
measure. 
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling. 
Compared with what Haidee did with his 
treasure: [ir^g> 

'Twas wonderful how things went on improv- 
While she had not one hour to spare from 
loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast. 
He flew into a passion, and in fact 

There was no mighty reason to be pleased; 
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act. 

The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least. 
To teach his people to be more exact; 

And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 

He show'd the \()yvi\ pcnchanis of a pirate. 



XLI. 
YouVe wrong — He was the mildest manner'd 
man 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman. 

You never could divine his real thought; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
He was so great a loss to good society. 

XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday. 

The vinous Greek, to whom he had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 

And, without turning his facetious head. 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
" Talking's dry work, I have no time to 
spare." 

A second hiccup'd, *< Our old master's dead; 
You'd better ask our mistress who's his heir." 

" Our mistress! " quoth a third, ** Our mis- 
tress! — pooh! — 

You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not 
whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage 
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom [fell — 
Pass'd; but he strove quite courteously to 
quell 
The expression, and, endeavoring to resume 

His smile, requested one of>hem to tell 
The name and quality of his new patron, 
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a 
matron. 

XLV. 

<* I know not," quoth the fellow, <* who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care; 

But this I know, that this roast capon's fat. 
And that good wine ne'er wash'd down 
better fare: 

And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my neighbor there; 

He'll answer all for better or for worse, 

For none likes more to hear himself con- 



' Rispone allor" Margatte, a dir tel tosto 
lo non credo piu al nero ch' all' azzurro: 
Ma nelc^pone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto* 



l82I. 



DON JUAN, 



^39 



XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
And certainly he show'd the best of breed- 
ing, [nations, 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding. 

He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton. 

Who all the time was eating up his mutton. 

XLVII. 

Now in a person used to much command — 
To bid men come, and go, and come again — 

To see his orders done, too, out of hand — 
Whether the word was death, or but the 
chain — 

It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, 

Though doubtless he who can command him- 

Is good to govern — almost as a Guelph. [self 

XLVIII. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in his real and serious mood; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd, like the boa in the wood: 

With him it never was a word and blow, 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood : 

But in his silence there was much to rue. 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little they expected him that day; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say. 

But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning. 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 

L 

If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great 
many ; 

For instance, if a husband or his wife 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any), 

No doubt,whate'er might be their former strife. 
The present weather would be much more 
rainy — 

Tears shed into the grave of the connection 

Would share most probably its resurrection 



E credo alcunavolta anco nel burro; 
Nella cervigia, e quando io n' ho nel mosto, 
E molto piu neir espro che il mangurro; 
Ma sopra tutto nel biion vino ho fade, 
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede." 

PuLCi, Morgante Maggiore, c. i8, «• . 151, 



He enter'd in the house no more his home, 

A thing to human feelings the most trying, 
And harder for the heart to overcome. 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of 
dying; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 
And round its once warm precincts palely 
lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief 
Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 
He enter'd in the house — his home no more; 
For without hearts there is no home, — and 
The solitude of passing his own door [felt 
Without a welcome: there he long had 
dwelt; 
There his few peaceful days Time had swept 
o'er; 
There his warm bosom and keen eye would 
Over the innocence of that sweet child, [melt 
His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanor, though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and 
meant 
For something better, if not wholly good; 

His country's wrongs, and his despair to save 
her. 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
The hardness by long habitude produced. 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 
The wild seas, and wild men with whom he 
cruised. 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 

And made him a good friend, but bad ac- 
quaintance. 

LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days; 

'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
Alas! his country show'd no path to praise: 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation/ 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 



640 



DON yUAA\ 



I«2I. 



Its power unconsciously full many a time — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and 

A lonely, pure aftection unopposed: [seen; 
There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with 
blindness. 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress, in her jungle raging. 

Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; 
The ocean, when its yeasty war is waging, 

Is awful to the vessel near the rock; 
But violent things will sooner bear assuaging. 

Their fury being spent by its own shock. 
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 
It is a hard, although a common case, 

To find our children running restive — they 
In whom our brightest days we would retrace. 

Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay. 
Just as old age is creeping on apace. 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 
But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner) : 
'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring [her); 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece, they cling 

To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). 
A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces, 

LXI. 
Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate. 

And stood within his hall at eventide; 
Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride; 
An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side: 
Gems, gold, and silver form'd the service 

mostly, 
Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes; 
Lamb and pistachio nuts — in short, all meats, 



And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the 
fishes 
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes: 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best 
for use. 

LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal 
ewer, [repast. 

And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups, came in at last; 
Gold cups of filigree, made to secure [placed. 

The hand from burning underneath them 
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 
The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 

Of velvet panels, each of different hue. 
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid; 

And round them ran a yellow border too; 
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd. 

Embroidered delicately o'er with blue, 
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXV. 

These Oriental writings on the wall. 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recall, [mind 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 

And took his kingdom from him; you will 

find, [treasure, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's 

There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic — 
(For that's the name they like to pray be- 
neath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic. 
Are things that really take away the breath — 

And show that late hours, wine, and love, are 
able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVII. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment, and appear'd quite new; 

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 



Ib21. 



DON JUAN. 



641 



A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue,' 
Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, | 

Had done their work of splendor; Indian 

mats [stain. 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things,' 

that gain [(that's 

Their bread as ministers and favorites — 

To say, by degradation), — mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court or fair. 

LXIX. 
There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand. 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver: — by command. 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX, 
Of all the dresses I select Haidee's: [yellow; 
She wore two jellicks — one was of pale 
Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little 
billow: 
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 
All gold and crimson shone her jellick's fel- 
low; [her, 
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound 
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd 
round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely 
arm, 

Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without 
harm. 

The limb which it adorn'd its only mould; 
So beautiful — its very shape would charm. 

And clinging as if loth to lose its hold. 
The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 
That e'er by precious metal was held in.* 

LXXII. 
Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar above her instep roll'df 



* This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
worn 'v\ the manner described. The reader will per- 
ceive hereafter, that as the mother of Haidee was of 
Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 

t The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of 
sovereign rank in the women of the families of the Deys, 
and is worn as such by their female relatives. 



Announced her rank; twelve rings were on 
her hand; [fold 

Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine 
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce 
be told; 
Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent, which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, and would conceal 
Her person if allow'd at large to run;* 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds, whene'er some Zephyr, caught. 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. [began 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were 
tinged 

(It is the country's custom), but in vain; 
For those large black eyes were so blackly 
fringed, 

The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
And in their native beauty stood avenged : 

Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair: 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
On mountain-tops more heavenly white than 
her; 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and s© transparent. 



* This is no exaggeration : there were four women, 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the 
other was a Levantine. The hair was of that length 
and quantity, that, when let down, it almost entirely 
shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a super- 
fluity. Of these, only one had dark hair ; the Oriental's 
had, perhaps, the lightest color of the four. 
41 



043 



DON JUAJSr. 



I82I. 



The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky-way ap- 
parent; 
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hairin't 
Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent. 
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but inces- 
sant. 

LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 
Dwarfs, dancing-girls, black eunuchs, and 
a poet, [plete: 

Which made their new establishment com- 
The last was of great fame, and liked to 
show it, 
His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 

And for his theme, he seldom sung below it — 
He being paid to satirize or flatter. 
As the psalm says, ** inditing a good matter." 
LXXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past, 
Reversing the good custom of old days. 

An Eastern anti-Jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays. 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pasha, 

With truth like Southey, and with verse like 
Crashaw. 

LXXX. 
He was a man who had seen many changes. 

And always changed as true as any needle; 
His polar star being one which rather ranges. 
And not the fix'd — he knew the way to 
wheedle: 
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill), 
He lied with such a fervor of intention — 
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate 
pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius, — when a turn-coat has it. 
The ** Vates irritabilis " takes care 

That without notice few full moons shall pass it; 
Even good men like to make the public 
stare — 

But to my subject — let me see — what was it? — 
Oh! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 

Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, 

Of living in their insular abode, [and mode 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
In company a very pleasant fellow, 

Had been the favorite of full many a mess 
Of men, and made them speeches when half 
mellow; [guess, 

And though his meaning they could rarely 



Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second's 
cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now, being lifted into high society, 
And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. 
He deem'd, being in a lone isle among 
friends. 

That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends; 

And singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 
He had travelled 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and 
Franks, [tions. 

And knew the self-loves of the different na- 
And having lived with people of all ranks. 

Had something ready upon most occasions— 
Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 

He varied with some skill his adulations; 
To ** do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece, 

LXXXV. 

Thus usually when he was ask'd to sing. 
He gave the different nations something na 
tional; [king,^' 

'Twas all the same to him — *< God save the 
Or ** C(2 eV<2," according to the fashion all: 

His muse made increment of anything. 
From the high lyric down to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hindei 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chan- 
In England, a six-canto quarto tale; [son; 

In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 
The last war — much the same in Portugal; 

In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
Would be old Goethe's — (see what says De 

In Italy, he'd ape the ** Trecentisti; "* [Stael); 

In Greece he'd sing some sort of hymn like 
this t' ye: 

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose and Pha^bus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scianf and the TeianJ muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 



* The poets of the fourteenth century, Dante, &c. 
t Homer. 
\ Anacreon, 



lS2I. 



DON yUAN 



6\% 



Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' ** Islands of the Blest."* 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations; — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they?f 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face : 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah, no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, *' Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords: 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 

Hark! rising to the ignoble call, — 

How answers each bold Bacchanal! 



* The VTjo-oi ixaKapoyv of the Greek poets were sup- 
posed to have been the Cape de Verd islands or the Ca- 
naries. 

t •* Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw 
This havoc; for his seat, a lofty mound 
Commanding the wide sea, o erlook'd the hosts. 
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes. 
And through his troops embattled on the shore 
Gave signal of retreat; then started wild 
And fled disorder'd." — ^Eschylus. 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone.*^ 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served — but served Poly crates — 
A tyrant : but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
7^/ia^ tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh, that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore: 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and selfs: 

In native swords and native ranks, . 
The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — ^ 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep: 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die!* 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 
LXXXVII. 
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have 
sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was 
young, 
Yet in these times he might have done much 
worse: [wrong; 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or 



*' TevoLfJiav 
ly v\aev eireo-Tt itovtov 
npo^Xrjfx,' a.\LK\vaTOv, aKpau 
i/TTO TrAaxa Sovj'iov."" /c.t.A. — Zo¥H, AjaJtr, ^.121^. 



644 



DON yUAM, 



I82I, 



And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of others' feeling: but they are such liars, I 
And take all colors — like the hands of dyers. I 

LXXXVIII. j 

But words are things; and a small drop of ink, 1 
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps mil-: 

lions think: [uses! 

'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man! 

Instead of speech^ may form a lasting link ! 
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this — ' 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!' 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank. 

His station, generation, even his nation. 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station 
In digging the foundation of a closet, 
May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

xc. 
And glory long has made the sages smile; 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, 
wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's style. 

Than on the name a person leaves behind. 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving 

knocks. 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

xci. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 

A little heavy, but no less divine: 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine: 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, [Nine 

We're told this great high priest of all the 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd 

spouse. 
For the lirst Mrs. Milton left his house.* 

xcii. 
All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord 
Bacon's bribes; 
Like Titus' youth, and Coesar's earliest acts; 
Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well de- 
scribes) ; [exacts 
Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth 
These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 
* See Johnson's Life of Milton [!n Lives of the Poets]. 



xcin. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 

He prated to the world of '* Pantisocracy;"* 
Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who then 

Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy: 
Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 
When he and Southey, following the same 

path. 
Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

xciv. 
Such names at present cut a convict figure, 

The very Botany Bay in moral geography; 
Their loyal treason, renegado rigor, 

Are good manure for their more bare biog- 
raphy. 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 

Than any since the birthday of typography; 
A drowsy, frowzy poem call'd The Excursiotiy 
Writ in a manner which is iry aversion. 

xcv. 
He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect; [like 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, 

Johanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect, 
Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind — so few are the elect; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. 

xcvi. 
But let me to my story: I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression — 
Leaving my people to proceed alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session ; 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 



I know that what our neighbors called ^^lon- "' 
gueurs " [thing y 

(We've not so good a word, but have th( 
In that complete perfection which ensures 

An epic from Bob Southey every spring — ) 
Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui* 

XCVIII. 
We learn from Horace, ** Homer sometime: 
sleeps;" [wakes, — 

We feel without him, Wordsworth sometime; 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 
With his dear " lVaggo7ierSy^^ around h\^^ 
lakes. 

f?o; 



I82I. 



DON JUAN. 



645 



He wishes for ** a boat " to sail the deeps— j ~ ~ 

If he „,„st fain sweep o'^ the etherea. plain, | ""notir '''" "' "'° '^^^ *^ P'-°P^'-«' 
Tn^rA^^^^T """"f ""f '""^ '" ^'^ "Waggon,"! Of S^"'"g '"'° heaven the shortest way • 
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain, I My altars are the mountains and the ^cean 
O. pray Medea for a single dragon? | Earth, air, stars-all that springs fromfhe 

Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, great Whole 

And hemif,t''nL"^'*'°T'"'' '"'^ t "''^ "".^ ''° ^^''^ produced, and will receive the soul 
Ana ne must needs mount nearer to the moon 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 'L *^^- 

^ J Sweet hour of twilight .'—in the solitude 

"Pedlars," and "Boats," and " Waggons'"' w?^^^'' P'"I 'S'^" ^""^ "''^ '■'^"' «hore 
O, ye shades ^^ l^^^ich bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this?! °'^'' ^^^^^ ""''^ """^ ^''"^" "'^^^ tlow'd 



To where the last Cesarean fortress stood 

Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's "lore 
AndDryden's lay made haunted ground to me 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ' ' 



cvi. 



mat trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
l^loats scumlike uppermost; and these Tack 
^^^^s [hiss— 

Of sense and song, above your graves may 
I he "httle boatman " and his '* Peter Bell'' 
Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel!"* 

CI. I 

T' our tale,— The feast was over, the slaves 
gone. 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired: 

K I ^^^ ^"^ P^^^'^ ^^"§ were done. 

And every sound of revelry expired; 
The lady and her lover, left alone, 
A '^^^^/'^'^ ^''''^ of twilight's sky admired;— 
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, fthee' 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest 

CII. 
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour. 

The time the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

binK o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
vVhile swung the deep bell in the distant tower. 

Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft, 
.nd not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
^ nd yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with 
prayer. 

cm, 
[ve Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer' 
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! 
ve Maria! may our spirits dare 
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! 
I ve Maria! oh that face so fair' \c[^^J(^ i r^ cm -i . 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Mu^XTJ a .^ f 7'u ^T '^' ^'^^''''' ^^ 
Khat though 'tis but a pictured imS^ 

strike— pi^Lurea image.-'— Seeming to wecD the dvin^ d^^ 

|}hatj)aintmgjsjtio^idol^^ too like. 






The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
I Making their summer lives one ceaseless 

W ere the sole echoes, save my steed's and 
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along- 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
His hell-dogs and their chase, and the fair 
throng, 
Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
From a true lover— shadow'd my mind's eye.* 

CVII. 

O Hesperus! thou bringest all good thingsf 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer-' 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear' 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest- ' 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the 
heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn 
apart; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his wav 
i the far bell of vesper makes him start,' 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; 

* See Dryden 's Theodore and Honoria. 
T EcTTTepe iravra <^epei?; 

$epet? oLVoi — (/)epet? atya, 



646 



DON yUAX. 



I82I. 



Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 
Ah! surely nothing dies but something 
mourns.* 

CIX. 
When Nerc perish'd by the justest doom j 

Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his 

tomb;t ! 

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when pow- , 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour, [er j 



* " Era gia I'ora che volje '1 disio, 

A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore, 
Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici a dio; 

E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, 
Che paia 1 giorno pianger che si muore." 

Dante's Purgatory, canto viii. 
This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by him 
without acknowledgment. 

^See "Suetonius" for this fact. 



I ex. 

But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons. 
To do with the transactions of my hero, 

More than such madmen's fellow -man — the 
moon's? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero. 

And I grown one of many ** wooden spoons" 
Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs 

please 
To dub the last of honors in degrees). 

CXI. 
I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 
(In copying) this long canto into two: 

They'll never find it out, unless I own 
The fact, excepting some experienced few; 

And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 
I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 
From Aristotle passim. — See noiT^Tc/o??. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



1821. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
In poesy, unless perhaps the end; 

For oftentimes, when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we 

tend, [ning; 

Like Lucifer, when hurl'd from heaven for sin- 
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. 

Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too 
far. 

Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 



l^ut Time, which brings all beings to their level, 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 

Man, and — as we would hope — perhaps the 
devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast: [el. 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins rev- 
\Ve know not this — the blood flows on too 
fast; 

Hut as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 

We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

III. 
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow. 
And vvish'd that otliers licld the same opin- 
ion : |h)w, 
They toolv it iij) wlit.-u my days t;icu uioremei- 



And other minds acknowledged my domin- 
Now my sere fancy ** falls into the yellow [ion : 

Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion. 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 

'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, for we must steep 

Our hearts first in the depth of Lethe's spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

V. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace it in this poem every line: 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be very fine; 
But the fact is, that I have nothing plann'd. 

Unless it were to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime, 
This way of writing will appear exotic: 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
Wlio sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 



l82I. 



DON JUAN, 



647 



And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, 
kings despotic; 
But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VII. 
How I have treated it, I do not know; 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Not what they saw, but what they wish'dto 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; [see: 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

VIII. 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts' most sweet society; 

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to 
fail: 

The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, 
But like the climes that know nor snow nor 
hail, 

They were all summer: lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them — they had too little clay. 



They were alone once more; for them to be 
Thus w^as another Eden : they were never 

Weary, unless when separate: the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the 

knee [ever, — 

And breast maternal wean'd at once for- 

Would wither less than these two torn apart: 

Alas! there is no instinct like the heart — 



The heart — which may be broken : happy they! 

Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould. 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 



** Whom the gods love, die young," was said 
of yore,* 

And many deaths do they escape by this; 
The death of friends, and that which slays 
even more — [is, 

The death of friendship, love, youth, all that 
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over, may be meant to save. 

XIII. 

Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead. 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd 

made for them: [fled; 

They found no fault with Time, save that he 

They saw not in themselves aught to con- 
demn: 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem ; 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of aff"ection. 



The gentle pressure and the thrilling touch. 
The least glance better understood than 
words, [much; 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too 
A language, too, but like to that of birds. 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense affords : [surd 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem ab- 

To those who have ceased to hear such, or 
ne'er heard. 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And children still they should have ever been ; 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene; 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To 'pass their lives in fountains and on flowers. 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless 
found [j^y^ 

Those their bright rise had lighted to such 
As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 

And these were not of the vain kind which 
cloys. 
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 

By the mere senses; and that which destroys 
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

* See Herodottts. 



J 



648 



DON JUAN. 



1821. 



XVII. 

Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful! [lights 
But theirs was love in which the mind de- 

To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, 
And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 

Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 

Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet 
more. 

Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

XVIII. 

Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many' 
know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from 
care? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below. 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, [reading. 
An opium-dream of too much youth and 

But was in them their nature or their fate: 
No novels e'er had set their young hearts 
bleeding; 

For Haidee's knowledge was by no means 
great, 
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; 

So that there was no reason for their loves 

More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX* 
They gazed upon the sunset: 'tis an horn- 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes. 
For it had made them what they were: the 
power [such skies, 

Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from 
When happiness had been their only dower. 
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's 
ties; [that brought 

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd 
The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night. 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came. 

And swept, as 'twere, across their heart's 
delight. 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame. 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight; 
And thus some boding flash'd through 
cither frame, 

An(l call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear ar<;se in Haidee's eye. 



XXII. 

That large black prophet-eye seem'd to dilate. 
And follow far the disappearing sun. 

As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb 
were gone; 

Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief; but, knowing cause for none, 

His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 

For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile; then turn'd 
aside: 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short. 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride: 

When Juan spoke, loo — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied, 

** If it should be so — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 



Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast. 
Defying augury with that fond kiss : 

And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best. 
Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss; 

I have tried both : so those who would a part 
take [heartache. 

May choose between the headache and the 

XXV. 

One of the two according to your choice, 
Women or wine, you'll have to undergo; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys. 

But which to choose I really hardly know; 

And if I had to give a casting voice. 

For both sides I could many a reason show, 

And then decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other * 
With swimming looks of speechless tender- 
ness, [brother. 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, 
All that the best can mingle and express 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one 
another, 
And love too much, and yet cannot love less; 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess, 

By the immortal wish and powder to bless. 

XXVII. 
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart. 
Why did they not then die? — they had lived 
too long 



I82I. 



DON JUAN. 



649 



Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; I 
Years could but bring them cruel things or 
wrong; 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song: 

Love was born with them, i7i them, so intense, 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 
They should have lived together deep in woods, ' 

Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were 
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes | 

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, 1 

and Care : ' 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods! j 

The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair: | 
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 

A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
For ever and anon a something shook 

Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would 

creep; [brook 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a 

A wordless music, and her face so fair 

Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with 
the air; 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem j 
Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; j 

Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threat- 
ening her; 

And o'er her upper Jip they seem'd to pour. 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they 
were [high — 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding 
feet. 
And stumbled almost every step she made : 

And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 



Which she must still pursue, howe'er afraid; 
'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to 
meet [grasp'd. 

Her glance or grasp, for still she gazed and 
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 
The dream changed: — in a cave slie stood, its 
walls 
Were hung with marble icicles : the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls. 

Where waves might wash, and seals might 

breed and lurk; 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and 

mirk [caught. 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they 

Which froze to marble as it fell — she thought. 

XXXIV. 
And wet, and cold, and lifeless, at her feet, • 
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead 
brow. 
Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they 
now!) 
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
Of his quench'd heart; and the sea-dirges 
low 
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect 
grew— [grace; 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view? 

Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets 

she there? 
'Tis — 'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and'shrieking fell. 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well : 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind — 

1 have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprang to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all; 



650 



DON yC'AX. 



I82I. 



Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, I Descend — the fault is mine; this fatal shore 
Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within my He found — but sought not. I have pledged 
call, I my faith; 

A thousand scimitars await the word; [I love him — I will die with him: I knew [too." 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's 



XXXVIII. 
And Haid^e clung around him: ** Juan, 'tis — 

'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father! Kneel with 
me — 
He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 

Oh, dearest father, in this agony 
Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 

Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? 
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 
High and inscrutable the old man stood. 
Calm in his voice, and calm within his 
eye — 
Not always signs with him of calmest mood: 

He look'd upon her, but gave no reply; 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood i 

Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; | 

In arms, at least, he stood in act to spring | 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might i 

bring. j 

XL. I 

" Young man, your sword!" So Lambro once' 
more said; 
Juan replied, ** Not while this arm is free!"! 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with 
dread, I 

But drawing from his belt a pistol, he j 

Replied, *' Your blood be then on your own 
head.^' I 

Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 



It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear. 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more .will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 
If you have got a former friend for foe; 

But after being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 



Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's 
breath. 
When Haidee threw herself her boy before. 
Stern as her sire: "On me," slic cried, *' let 
death 



XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy; but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human 
fears — 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the 
blow; 

And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers. 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 'twas strange 
How like they look'd! the expression was 
the same; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame; 

For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame: 

Her father's blood, before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature difl'ering but in sex and years; 

Even to the delicacy of their hand [wears; 
There was resemblance, such as true blood 

And now to sec them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, [botk, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still. 

And looking on her, as to look her through, 
** Not /," he said, ** have sought this stran- 

Not /have made this desolation: few [ger's ill; 
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 

** Let him disarm; or, by my father's head. 
His own shall roll before you, like a ball!" 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said. 
And blew, another answer'd to the call, 

And, rushing in disorderly, though led. 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all. 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; 

He gave the word — <<Arrest or slay the I'lank!** 



l82I. 



DON JUAN, 



651 



XLVIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter; while compress'd within his 
clasp, 

'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 

His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 

The file of pirates; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut 
through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open; but 

The third, a wary, cool old swoider, took 
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 

His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 
His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 

With the blood running, like a little brook. 
From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 
One on the arm, the other on the head. 

L. 
And then they bound him where he fell, and 

Juan from the apartment ; with a sign, [bore 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 

Where lay some ships which were to sail at 
nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in 
line; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the 
watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
Handsome and young, enjoying all the pres- 
ent. 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move. 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII. 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green 
tea! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 

'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, 



Unless when rjuallfied with thee, CogniacI 
Sweet Naiad ol" the Phlegethontic rilll 



Ah, why the liver wilt thou thus attack, [ill? 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but yack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 



I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — [ed; 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wound- 
Vet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom 
bounded! 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. 

And then give way, subdued, because sur- 
rounded ; 
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, 
and fruit, 
Gush from the earth, until the land runs o'er: 
But there, too, many a poison tree has root. 
And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long,long deserts scorch the camel's foot. 
Or heaving, whelm the helpless caravan: 
And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 



Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled: full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's 
hour, 

And like the soil beneath, it will bring forth: 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother^s 
dower; [force, 

But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 
Like summer's clouds all silvery smooth and 
fair, 
I Till slowly charged with thunder, they display 
I Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 
iHad held till now her soft and milky way,- 
! But, overwrought with passion and despair, 
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. 
Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 



The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
And he himself o'ermaster'd, and cut down; 

His blocxl was running on the very floor. 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; 



652 



DON JUAN. 



1821. 



Thus much she viewed an instant, and no| Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still 

more — [groan;' true, [cause, 

., Her struggles ceased with one convulsive Brought back the sense of pain without the 

' On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

held Lxili. 

Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar fell'd. l-u 1 1 , 1 r -^i. 

' ^' ' ^She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 

^^^* I On many a token, without knowing what; 

A vein had burst, and her sweet hps' pure ghg saw them watch her, without asking why, 

^y^^ L^"^^ ^ ^^*j : And reck'd not who around her pillow sat: 

Were dabbled with the deep blood which , ]>^Tq^ speechless, though she spoke not; not a 

And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies I gj^j^ fchat 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd hand- 1 Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick 

maids bore i Were tried in vain by those who served; she 

Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes; | gave 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their ;^t^ ^^^^^ s^^e breath, of having left the grave, 
store, i 

But she defied all means they could employ. 
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy, 



Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away; 
She recognized no being, and no spot, 

However dear, or cherish'd in their day; 
They changed from room to room, but all 
forgot : 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain be 
weaning [meaning. 

Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful 

LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp; 

The harper came and tuned his instrument 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp. 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart 
And he began a long low island song [re-sent; 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall. 
In time to his old tune: he changed the 
theme, [through all 

And sung of love; the fierce name struck 
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being: in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her overclouded 
brain, [rain. 

Like mountain mists, at length dissolved in 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too 
quick. 
And whirl'dher brain to madness; she arose. 



Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though 
chill— 

With nothing livid, still her lips were red: 
She had no pulse,but death seem'd absent still ; 

No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill 

All hope; to look upon her sweet face, bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of 

soul — [whole. 

She had so much, earth could not claim the 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 

When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 
Butfix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 

O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair; 
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes. 

And ever-dying Gladiator's air. 
Their energy, like life, forms all their fame. 
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 

Rather the dead, for life seem'd something 
new, 
A strange sensation which she must partake 

Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 

* This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
Foscari, on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bell of St. 
Mark announce the election of his successor, " mourut 
subitement d'une hemorrhagic causce par une veine qui 
s'eclata dans sa poitrine" (see Sismondi and Daru, vols. 

i. and ii.), at the age of eighty years, when " ^K^^Tf/*^/^/^ 

have thought the old man had so 7nuch blood in a ^ _.._ ^u^ n^'Zr harl Hwf-U amnna the ^irk 
him?' Before I was sixteen years of age. I was witness! ^^ ^"f ^"^ "^ ^^ "^^ dwelt among the sick, 
to a melancholy instance of the same effect of mixed pas- ' And flew at all she met, as on her Iocs; 
sions upon a young person ; who, however, did not die! But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
in consequence at that time, but fell a victim some years Althnnah ber narovvmii drew towards its 
afterwards to a seizure of the s.imc kiid. arising from ^^^tMough hei paroxysm Qrew tOWaiQb US 
causes intimately cunnecte^l v. ii.i .:^itai.i(^.i oi'miiia. ' close: — 



I82I. 



DOM JUAN. 



053 



Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's 
face. 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace. 
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence 

Avail'd for either; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for- 
ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at 

last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
A parting pang, the spirit from her past : 

And they who watch'd her nearest, could 
not know 
The very instant, till the change that cast 

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 
Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
Oh! to possess such lustre — and then lack! 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone: she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin; 
But closed its little being without light, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one 
blight: 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not 
made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to 
bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

The isle is now all desolate and bare. 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away: 

None but her own and father's grave is there. 
And nothing outward tells of human clay: 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was : no dirge, except the hollow sea's. 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 



LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name; and many an islandei 

With her sire's story makes the night less long. 
Valor was his, and beauty dwelt with her: 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape; let none think to fly the danger. 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 
LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too 
sad, 

And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; 
I don't much like describing people mad. 

For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
Besides, I've no more on this head to add; 

And as my muse is a capricious elf, 
We'll put about and try another tack 
With Juan, left half-killed some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, ^< cabin'd, cribb'd, 
confined," 

Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
Could altogether call the past to mind; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea. 
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind; 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 
But now was not much pleased with Cape 
Sig?eum. 

LXXVI. 

There on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by tlie Hellespont and by the sea) 

Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles; 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary); 

And farther downward, tall and towering still, is 
The tumulus — of whom? Heaven knows; 't 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus; [may be 

All heroes, who, if living still, would slay us. 

LXX VII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same. 
And old Scamander (if 'tis he), remain: 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease; but where I sought for Ilion's 
walls. 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls. 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses; here and there 
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth . 

Some shepherds (unlike Paris), led to stare 
A moment at the European youth [bear; 

Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings 



654 



DON yUAN. 



1821. 



A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in 
mouth, 
Extremely taken with his own religion, [ian. 
Are what I found there — but the devil a Phryg- 
LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could 
urge 
A few brief questions; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians, as they were in fact; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one : a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation; had not been attack'd. 

In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate. 

But sold by the impresario, at no high rate.* 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gaiety and grace, 

wShowing a much more reconciled demeanor 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story. 
Saying, ** Our Machiavellian impresario. 

Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario; 

But if the Sultan has a taste for song, 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

** The prima donna, though a little old. 
And haggard with a dissipated life. 

And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 
Has some good notes: and then the tenor's 
wife, 

W^ith no great voice, is pleasing to behold; 
Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 



* This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a 
company for some foreign theatre, embarked them at an 
Italian port, and, carrying them to Algeria, sold them 
all. (J)ne of the women, returned from her captivity, I 
heard sing, by a strange coincidence, in Rossini's opera of 
"L'ltaliand in .^/^^r/a," at Venice in the beginning of 1 
1817. ' 



By carrying off Count Caesare Cicogna 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

** And then there are the dancers: there's the 
Nini, 

With more than one profession gains by all; 
Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 

She, too, was fortunate last carnival. 
And made at least five hundred good zecchini. 

But spends so fast she has not now a paul; 
And then there's the Grotesca — such a dancer! 
Where men have souls or bodies, she must 
answer. 

LXXXV. 
" As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and ther«> 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike. 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 
There's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental kind of air [vigor; 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with 
The more's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a middling set; 

The musico is but a crack'd old basin; 
But being qualified in one way yet. 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get: 

His singing I no further trust can place in. 
P'rom all the Pope makes yearly, 'twould 

perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.* 

LXXX VII. 

*'The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation: 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education, [fellow; 
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless 

But being the prima donna's near relation. 
Who swore his voice was very rich and 
mellow, [believe 

They hired him, though to hear him you'd 

An ass was practicing recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

** Twould not become myself to dwell upon 
My own merits, and though young, — I see, 
sir — you 
Have got atraveli'dair, which speaks you one 

To whom the opera is by no means new: 
You've heard of Raucocanti? — I'm the man; 
The time may come when you may hear me, 
too; 



*It is strange that it should be the Pope and the Sul- 
tan who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade • 
I — women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
'not deemed trustworthy as guardians of the harem. 



l82I. 



DON JUAN. 



65s 



You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — 
do go. 

LXXXIX. 

** Our baritone I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 

In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe. 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth," 

xc. 
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths; each 

threw [all 

A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright 

From the blue skies derived a double blue. 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun), 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

XCI. 
They heard next day that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his Sublimity's firman. 
The most imperative of sovereign spells. 

Which everybody does without who can. 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple. 
For the slave market of Constantinople. 

XCII, 
It seems, when this allotment was made out. 
There chanced to be an odd male and odd 
female. 
Who (after some discussion and some doubt. 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male. 
They placed him o'er the woman as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the 
male [^gc — 

Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his 
Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage. 

XCIII. 
With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 

The tenor; these two hated with a hate. 
Found only on the stage, and each morepain'd 

With this his tuneful neighbor than his fate; 
Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd. 

Instead of bearing up without debate, [oath, 
That each puU'd different ways with many an 
** Arcades ambo" — id est, blackguards both. 

xciv. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the March of old Ancona, 



With eyes that looked into the very soul 

(And other chief points of a "belladonna"). 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal; 

And through her clear brunette complexion a 

shone a \ 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower. 
Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. J 

But all that power was wasted upon him, : 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern com- 
mand; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; 
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel 

brittle; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 
No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire. 
But facts are facts; no knight could be more 
And firmer faith no ladye-love desire; [true, 

We will omit the proofs, save one or two: 
'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 

By thought of frosty Caucasus;" but few, 
I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal 
Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 
XCVII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description. 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth. 
Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship 
soon. 
Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for a camel is 
To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

XCVIII. 
'Tis all the same to me : I'm fond of yielding, 
And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things, for so correct an age. 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage. 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it 
shan't. 

xcix. 
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a 
squabble; 
But at this hour I wish to part in peace. 
Leaving such to the literary rabble, 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to 

cease, [able. 

While the right hand which wrote it still is 



656 



DON JUAN, 



1821. 



Or of some centuries to take a lease; 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long, ' 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 
Of poets who come down to us through dis- 
tance [Fame, ' 

Of time and tongues, the foster babes of 
Life seems the smallest portion of existence; I 

Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
'Tis as a snowball, which derives assistance • 

From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; 
But, after all, tis nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 

And so great names are nothing more than 
nominal, 
And love of glory's but an airy lust. 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, en- 
tombing all. 
Leaves nothing till "the coming of the just" — 
Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of| 
Rome. 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 
Until the memory of an age is fled, [doom: 

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's 
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? 

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 
Which once-named myriads nameless lie be- 
And lose their own in universal death, [neath, 

cm. 
I canter by the spot each afternoon, 

Where perish'd, in his fame, the hero-boy, 
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 

For human vanity, the young De Foix! 
A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn. 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, [base.* 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the 



Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 



I pass, each day, where Dante's bones are laid : 
A little cupola, more neat than solemn. 

Protects his dust; but reverence here is paid 
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's 
column; 

The time must come when both, alike decay'd. 
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume. 



* The pillar which commemorates the battle of Ra- 
venna is about two miles from the city, on the opposite 
side of the river to the road towards Forh. Gaston de 
Foix gained the battle and was killed in it. 



With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled; 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd: 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
Should ever be those bloodhounds, from 
whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

cvi. 
Yet there will still be bards; though fame is 
smoke. 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 
And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
Song in the world, will seek what then they 
sought; 
As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
Thus to their extreme verge the passions 
brought, 
Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CVII. 

If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative. 

Men who partake all passions as they pass. 
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 

Their images again, as in a glass. 

And in such colors that they seem to live; 

You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 

But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

O ye who make the fortunes of all books! 

Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your *< imprimatur" will ye not annex? 
What! must I go to the oblivious cooks? 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be, [wrecks ? 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!' 

CIX. 

What! can I prove *'a lion" then no more? 
A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press 
darling? 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, [ling ; 
And sigh,** I can't get out," like Yorick's star- 
Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, 
(Because the world won't read him, always 
snarling). 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 



l82I 



DON JUAN. 



657 



ex. 

** darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you: 

They say your stockings are so (Heaven 
knows why, 

1 have examined few pair of that hue) : 

Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 
The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 
Vet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 

But times are altered since, a rhyming lover, 
You read my stanzas, and I read your fea- 
tures; [over; 

And — but no matter, all those things are 
Still, I have no dislike to learned natures. 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; 
I knew one woman of that purple school, 
The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 

CXII. 
Humboldt, << the first of travellers," but not 

The last, if late accounts be accurate. 
Invented, by some name I have forgot. 

As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
An airy instrument, with which he sought 

To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
By measuring "the intensity of blue ;''''* 
O, Lady Daphne, let me measure you! 

CXIII. 
But to the narrative. — The vessel, bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital. 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall; [sound. 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and 

Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and 

Circassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 



CXIV. 

Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 

Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colors 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd 
eleven; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce 
would bring; 
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
I What 'twas ere Abolition; and the thing 
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king; 
The virtues, even the most exalted. Charity, 
Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

cxv I. 
But for the destiny of this young troop. 

How some were bought by pashas, some by 
Jews, 
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 

And others rose to the command of crews 
As renegadoes; while, in hapless group. 

Hoping no very old vizier might choose. 
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 

'em. 
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim: 



* The cyanometer, an instrument for ascertaining the 
intensity of the blue color of the sky. 



All this must be reserved for further song; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
(Because this canto has become too long). 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present. 
I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, [in't: 

But could not for the muse of me put less 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd, in Ossian, the fifth Duan. 



CANTO THE FIFTH. 



1821. 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, [doves, 

And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her 
They little think what mischief is in hand; 

The greater their success, the worse it proves, 
As Ovid's verse may give to understand; 

Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due se- 

Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity, [verity, 



I therefore do denounce all amorous writing. 
Except in such a way as not to attrajl: 

Plain — simple — short, and by no meai.s invit- 
But with a moral to each error tackM, [ing, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem Vvill become a moral model. 
42 



65^ 



DON yUAX. 



1821. 



The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces: the ocean stream* 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four; 
Sophia's cupola, with golden gleam; 

The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar; 
The twelve isles, and the more than I could 
dream. 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of ** Maiy," 
For once it was a magic sound to me; 

And still it half calls up the realms of fairy. 
Where I beheld what never was to be : 

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
A spell from which even yet I'm not quite 
free; 

But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold. 

Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine,and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades; 

'Tis a grand sight, from off '* the Giant's 

Grave. "f 

To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in. 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the 
Euxine. 

VI. 

'Twas a raw day of autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equal, but not so the days; 

The Parcpe then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they 
don't; [won't. 

Because, if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they 

VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves, of every nation. 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; 
Each bevy with the merchant in his station: 
Poor creatures, their good looks were sadly 
changed; 
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
From friends, and home, and freedom, far 
estranged: 



* 'fl/ccai'oto peoto. This expression of Homer has 
been much criticised. It hardly answers to our Atlantic 
ideasoftha ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the 
Hellespont and the Bosphorus, with the ^gean inter- 
sected with islands. 

t "The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties, like Harrow and Highgate. 



The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 

As most of his age are, of hope and health; 

Yet I must own he look'd a little dull. 

And now and then a tear stole down by 
stealth; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene; 

His figure and the splendor of his dress. 
Of which some gilded remnants still were 
seen. 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien; 

And then, though pale, he was so very hand- 
some; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon board the place was 
dotted [for sale, 

With whites and blacks, in groups on show 
Though rather more irregularly spotted: 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the 
pale. 
It chanced, among the other people lotted, 

A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
With resolution in his dark grey eye, 
Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English look; that is, was square 

In make, of a complexion white and ruddy: 

Good teeth, with curling, rather dark brown 

hair; [study, 

And, it might be from thought, or toil, or 
An open brow a little mark'd with care: 

One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; 

And there he stood with such sangfroid^ that 

greater [tator. 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spec- 

XII. 
But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of a high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the woe, 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any olhcr scrape, a thing of course. 



IS2I 



DON JUAN. 



659 



XIII. 
** My boy," — said he," amidst this motley crew 

Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue, [not. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
The only gentlemen seem I and you; 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought: 
If I could yield you any consolation [nation?" 
'T would give me pleasure. — Pray,what is your 
XIV. 

When Juan answer'd, ** Spanish," he replied, 
**I thought,in fact,you could not be a Greek; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: | 
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak, ; 

But that's her way with all men, till they're 

tried; [week: 

But never mind — she'll turn, perhaps, next 

She has served me also much the same as you, 

Except thart I have found it nothing new," 

XV. 

*<Pray, sir," said Juan, ** if I may presume, 
What brought you here? "- — ** Oh, nothing 
very rare — [doom, 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain- " — ** To this 

But what conducted, if the question's fair. 
Is that which I would learn." — ** I served for 
some [there; 

Months with the Russian army here and 
And, taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
A town, was ta'en myself, instead of Widdin." 
XVI. 

** Have you no friends? " — << I had; but, by 

God's blessing, [Now 

Have not been troubled with them lately. 

I have answered all your questions without 

pressing. 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 

** Alas!" said Juan, •* 'twere a tale distressing, 

And long, besides." — *< Oh, if 'tis really so. 

You're right, on both accounts, to hold your 

tongue; 
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 'tis long. 

XVII. 
«< But droop not : Fortune, at your time of life, j 

Although a female moderately fickle, | 

Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) ! 

For any length of days in such a pickle; | 
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife! 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 

*< 'Tis not," said Juan, <« for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past; — I loved a maid :" 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of 
A single tear upon his eyelash stay'd [gloom ; 



A moment, and then dropp'd ; *< but to resume, 
I 'Tis not my present lot, as I have said. 

Which I deplore so much: for I have borne 
(Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

1 XIX. 

I 

** On the rough deep. But this last blow " — and 
here 

He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
**Ah!" quoth his friend, ** I thought it would 
appear 

That there had been a lady in the case; 
And these are things which ask a tender tear, 

Such as I too would shed, if in your place; 
I cried upon my first wife's dying day. 
And also when my second ran away: 

XX. 

"My third " "Your third!" quoth Juan, 

turning round, [three?" 

"You scarcely can be thirty: have you 
" No — only two at present above ground; 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound! " 
" Well, then, your third," said Juan, " what 
did she? 
She did not run away too — did she, sir? " 
" No, faith." — " What then? " — " I ran away 
from her." 

XXI. 
"You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. 
"Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do? 
There still are many rainbows in your sky. 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 
Commence with feelings warm and prospects 
high; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 
XXII. 
'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh. 
Or fresher, brighter; but, the year gone 
through. 
This skin must go the way too of all flesh. 

Or sometimes only wear a week or two; — 

Love's the first net which spreads its deadly 

mesh : 

Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 
" All this is very fine, and may be true," 

vSaid Juan; " but I really don't see how 
It betters present times with me or you." 

" No? " quoth the other; " yet you will allow^ 
By setting things in their right point of view; 



66o 



DON yUAN. 



182 1. 



Knowledge at least is gain'd: for instance,! 

now ' 

We know what slavery is; and our disasters | 

May teach us better to behave, when masters." | 

XXIV. 

" Would we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present lessons on our Pagan friends 
here," 
Said Juan, swallowing a heart-burning sigh; 

** Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune 
sends here! " 
** Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 

Rejoin'd the other, ** when our bad luck 

mends here; [us) 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye 

I wish to G — d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. I 

** But, after all, what is our present state? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot: I 

Most men are slaves, none more so than the 

great, [not; 

To their own whims, and passions, and what 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got:' 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 

XXVI. 
Just now a black old neutral personage j 

Of the third sex stept up, and peering over! 
The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and 

And capabilities, as to discover [age,; 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage: j 

No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow -creatures; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and arc dext'rous: some by 
features 
Are bought up, others by a v/arlike leader; 
Some by a place — as tend their years or 
natures; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices, i 

XXVIII. 
The eunuch, having eyed tliem o'er with care, 

Turn'd to the merchant, and Ijc^^an to bid 
First but for one, and after for the pair; [didi 

They haggled, wranghjd, swore too — so they 
Asthoupr^ .liey were in a mere Christian fair, 

Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lami;, or kid; 
So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
For this superior yoke of human cattle. 



XXIX. 
At last they settled into simple grumbling. 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some down, and weighing others in their 
hand. 
And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,* 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd; 
And then the merchant, giving change, and 

signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good? 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion? 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might 
intrude. 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question 
About the right divine, how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner hasop- 
prest one, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says *' No "; he tells you that Candide 
Found life most tolerable after meals: 

He's wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed. 
Repletion rather adds to what he feels, 

Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's 

freed [reels. 

From his own brain's oppression, while he 

Of food I think with Philip's son,f or rather 

Amnion's (ill pleased with one world and one 
father) ; 

XXXII. 

I think, with Alexander, that the act 
Of eating, with another act or two, 

Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout. 

And fish, and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 

Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 

Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

XXXIII. 
The other evening ('twas on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great-coat was about me cast. 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a sliot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce 
past — 
And, running out as fast as I was able, 

* The Turkish zecchino is a gold coin worth 7J. (>d. ; 
the para is not quite equal to an English halfpenny. 

t Sec Plutarch, in ALx.; Q. Curtius, Hist, Alex.^ 
&c., &:c. 



l82I. 



DON JUAN, 



66i 



I found the military commandant [pant.* 

Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to 

XXXIV. 
Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad. 
They had slain him with five slugs, and left 
him there 
To perish on the pavement; so I had 

llim borne into the house, and up the stair, 

And stripp'd, and look'd to. But why should 

I add 

More circumstances? Vain was every care; 

The man was gone. In some Italian quarrel, 

Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. f 

XXXV. 
I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; 

And though I have seen many corpses, ifever 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, 
So calm: though pierced through stomach, 
heart, and liver. 
He seem'd to sleep — for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead; 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

**Can this be death? Then what is life or death? 
Speak!" but he spoke not. '*Wake!" but 
still he slept — 
" But yesterday, and who had mightier breath? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 

* Go/ and he goeth: « come,' and forth he 

stepp'd. 

The trump and bugle till he spake were 

dumb — [drum." 

And now nought left him but the muffled 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — 
they [bed 

With their rough faces throng'd about the 
To gaze once more on the commanding clay. 

Which for the last, though not the first, time 
bled: 
And such an end! that he who many a day j 

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled — 
The foremost in the charge or in the sally. 
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 

XXXVIII. 
The scars of his old wounds were near his new. 
Those honorable scars which brought him 
fame; 



* The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of 
December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hun- 
dred paces from the residence of the writer. The circum- 
stances were as described. 

t There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half off ; it had just been discharged, and was still 
warm. 



And horrid was the contrast to the view — 
But let me quit the theme; as such things 
claim 
Perhaps even more attention than is due [same) 
From me. I gazed (as oft I've gazed the 
To try if I could wrench aught out of death. 
Which should confirm, or shake, or make, a 
faith; 

XXXIX. 
But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 

And there we go — Ijut where? For bits of 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far I [lead. 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be 

Can every element our elements mar? [shed? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we 

dead? [No more; 

Wcy whose minds comprehend all things? 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 

Embark'd himself and them, and off they 
went thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float; 

They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
Wondering what next, till the caique* was 

Up in a little creek below a wall [brought 

O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor, tapping at the wicket 

Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 
He led them onward, first through a low 
thicket, [either hand: 

Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on 
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 

For night was closing ere they came to land. 
The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
Whorow'd off, leaving them, without a word. 

XLII. 
As they were plodding on their winding way. 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and 
so forth: 
(Of which I might have a good deal to say. 

There being no such profusion in the North 
Of oriental plants, et cetei'a, [worth 

But that of late your scribblers think it 
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their 

works, 
Because our poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks:) 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there 
came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

*rhe light and elegant wherries plying about the 
quays of Constantinople are so called. 



662 



DOX JUAN, 



1821 



Whisper'd to his companion: 'twas the same 

\Vhich might have then occurr'd to you or me. i 

*' Methinks," said he, *' it would be no great, 

shame i 

If we should strike a stroke to set us free; ! 

Let's knock that old black fellow on the head, 

And march away — 'twere easier done thani 

said." 

XLIV. 

** Yes," said the other, '' and when done, what 
then? 

Now get out? How the devil got we in? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our 
To-morrow'd see us in some other den, [skin,* 

And worse ofi than we hitherto have been; 
Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beefsteak. 

XLV. 

** We must be near some place of man's 
abode; — 
For the old negro's confidence in creeping. 
With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
Shows that he thinks his friends have not 
been sleeping; 
A single cry would bring them all abroad : 

'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us 

through; 
By Jove, a noble palace! — lighted, too." 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the 
front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont — 

A gaudy taste: for they are little skill'd in 
The arts of which these lands were once the 
fount : 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

iSew painted, or a pretty opera scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savor 
Of certain stews, and roast meats, and pi- 
laus, [vor. 
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find fa- 
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 
And put iiimself upon his good ])ehavior: 

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause. 
Said,** In heaven's name lei's get some supper 

now, 
And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XLVIII. 
Some talk of an appeal unto some })assion. 
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason; 



♦§t. Bartholomew was flayed alive. 



The last of these was never much the fashion, 

For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash 
on. 

But more or less continue still to tease on. 
With arguments according to their ** forte;" 
But no one ever dreams of being short. — 

XLIX. 
But I digress: of all appeals — although 

I grant the power of pathos and of gold, 
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling — no 

Method's more sure at moments to take hold 
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 

More tender, as we every day behold. 
Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 
The t(5csin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 

L. 

Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; 

And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 

Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, 
Vet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine. 

And cooks in motion with their clean arms 
bared; 
And gazed around them to the left and right. 
With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 
They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 

Who little thought that his own crack'd exist- 
Was on the point of being set aside: [ence 

He motion'd them to stop at some small dis- 
tance, 
And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd wide, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

LII. 

I won't describe: description is my forte. 
But every fool describes, in these bright days, 

His wondrous journey to some foreign court. 
And spawns his quarto, and demands your 
praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport; 
While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways. 

Resigns herself, with exemplary patience. 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illus- 
trations. 

LIII. 
Along this hall, and up- and down, some, 
squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; 
Others, in monosyllable talk chatted, [dress, 
And some seem'd much in love with their own 
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths, of greater price, or le«s; 



I82I. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



And several strutted, others slept, and some 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.* 



As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment, without slackening from their pace; 
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise: 

One or two stared the captives in the face. 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station. 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 



He leads them through the hall, and, without 
stopping. 
On through a further range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid, but silent, save in onCy where, drop- 
ping, [glooms 
A marble fountainf echoes through the 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where 
popping 
Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or 

lattice, 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Some faint lamps, gleaming from the lofty 
walls, 

Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
But not enough to show the imperial halls 

In all the flashing of their full array : 
Perhaps there's nothing — I'll not say appals. 

But saddens more by night as well as day. 
Than an enormous room, without a soul 
To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LVII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing, 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore. 

There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
The spots which were her realms forever- 

Butin a mighty hall or gallery, both in [more: 
More modern buildings and those built of 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, [yore. 

Seeing what's meant for many with but one. 



* In Turkey nothing is more common than for the 
Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as 
six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined the 
better for it. I tried the experiment, but was like the 
Scotchman, who, having heard that birds called kitti- 
wakes were admirable whets, ate six of them, and com- 
plained that " he was no hungrier than when he 
began.** 

t A common furniture. I recollect being received by 
Ali Pacha in a room containing a marble basin and 
fountain playing in the centre, &c., &c. 



LVIII. 
A neat, snug study, on a winter^s night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, [pass; 

Are things which make an English evening 
Though, certes, by no means so grand a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely; 
And that's the reason I'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him 

little; 

I grant you in a church 'tis very well; 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means 

be brittle, [tell 

But strong and lasting, till no tongue can 

Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses 

fit ill— [Adam fell: 

And huge tombs worse — mankind, since 

Methinks the story of the tower of Babel [able. 

Might teach them this much better than I'm 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then 
A town of gardens, walls and wealth 
amazing. 

Where Nebuchadonosor, king of men, 

Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to 
grazing. 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
The people's awe and admiration raising: 

'Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated queen Semiramis.* 

LXI. 

That injured queen, by chroniclers so coarse 
Has been accused (I doubt not by con- 
spiracy) 
Of an improper friendship for her horse 

(Love,likereligion,sometimes runs to heresy). 
This monstrous tale had probably its source 

(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 
In writing* 'Courser" by mistake for <* Courier:" 
I wish the case would come before a jury here. 

LXII. 

But to 1 esume, — should there be (what may not 
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't. 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't 

(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks 
has got. 
And written lately two memoirs upon't), 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you. 



* Babylon was enlarged by Nimrod, strengthened 
and beautified by Nebuchadonosor, and rebuilt by 

Semiramis, 



664 



DOiV JUAN. 



1S21. 



I.XIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 
Who give themselves to architecture wholly; 

We know where things and men must end at 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy, [best: 

And Et sepulcri ininienior siruis aofnos, [us. 

Shows that we buildwhenwe should but entomb 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired. 

Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; 
Though full ofall things whichcould be desired. 

One wonder'd what to do with such a number 
Of articles which nobody required; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment, [meant. 
Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art 

LXV. 
It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, which 
Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in this 

The movables were prodigally rich : [one 
Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they; carpets every stitch 
Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish 
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning | 

A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in 

wonder, [staining. 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of 

As if the milky way their feet was under 
With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in 
yonder — 
In that remote recess which you may see — j 
Or if you don't, the fault is not in me,— 

LXVII. 
I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, 

I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 
A quantity of clothes fit for the back 

(Jf any Mussulman, whate'er his worth; 
And of variety there was no lack — [dearth. 

And yet, though I have said there was no 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 

A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might 

reach, [burst, 

And trousers not so tight that they would 

But such as lit an Asiatic breech; [nurst, 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmere had been 



Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish 
Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba,their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably obtain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend; 
And then he added that he needs must say, 

** 'Twould greatly tend to better their condition 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 

** For his own part, he really should rejoice 
To see them true believers, but no less 

Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
The other, thanking him for this excess 

Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 
In such a trifle, scarcely could express 

'^ Sufficiently" (he said) ** his approbation 

Of all the customs of this pol'sh'd nation. 

LXX I. 

<*For his own share, he saw but small objection 
To so respectable an ancient rite; 

And after swallowing down a slight refection, 
For which he own'd a present appetite. 

He doubted not a few hours of reflection 
Would reconcile him to the business quite." 

'* W^ill it?" said Juan, sharply; " Strike me 
dead, 

But they as soon shall circumcise my head! 

LXXII. 

** Cut off a thousand heads before " 

" Now, pray," 

Replied the other, *< do not interrupt; 
You put me out in what I had to say. 

Sir! — as I said, as soon as I have supt, 
I shall perpend if your proposal may 

Be such as I can properly accept; 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own free-will," 

LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
As dress yourself " — and pointed out a suit 

In which a princess with great pleasure would 
Array her limbs; l)ut Juan, standing mute. 

As not being in a masquerading mood. 

Gave it a slight kick with his Cliristian foot: 

And when the old negro told him to **get 
ready," 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 
" What you may be I neither know nor care," 
Said Baba, '' but pray do ab 1 desire; 



l82I. 



DON JUAN. 



665 



I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
** At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of this odd travesty." — " Forbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious; 'twill transpire, 

No doubt, in proper place, and time, and 
season : 

I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 

*'Then if I do," said Juan, '^'11 be " 

«*Hold! " 

Rejoin'd the negro,** pray be not provoking; 
This spirit's well, but it may wax too bold. 

And you will find us not too fond of joking." 
*' What, sir," said Juan, ** shall it e'er be told 

That I unsex'd my dress? " But Baba, 
stroking [call 

The things down, said, ** Incense me, and I 
Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

** I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 
A woman's, true; but then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — "What, though 

my soul loathes [pause. 

The effeminate garb?" — thus, after a short 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
'* What the devil shall I do with all this 
gauze?" 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 

LXXVII. 

And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trousers of flesh-color'd silk; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd — 
Which girt a light chemise as white as milk; 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 
Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, 
whilk 

(The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes 

Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) , was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awk- 
ward — 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward : 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, [hard; 
When some untoward part of raiment stuck 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown. 

He paused, and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd — his hair 

Was hardly long enough; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare. 

That soon his head was most completely 
crown'd, 



After the manner then in fashion there ; 

And this addition with such gems was bound 
As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 
While Baba made him comb his hair, and oil it, 

LXXX. 

And now, being femininely all array'd. 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, 
and tweezers, 

He look'd in almost all respects a maid, [sirs. 
And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, <* You see, 

A perfect transformation here display'd: [sirs. 
And now,then,you must come along with me. 

That is — the Lady." Clapping his hands twice, 

Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

** You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
"W^ill please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
Will follow me. No trifling, sir; for when 

I say a thing it must at once be done. 

What fear you? Think you this a lion's den? 

Why, 'tis a palace, where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

** You fool! I tell you no one means you harm," 
* So much the better," Juan said, **forthem; 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm. 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm, 
If any take me for that which I seem; 

So that I trust, for everybody's sake. 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 

** Blockhead! come on, and see," quoth Baba; 
while 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce for- 
bear a smile 

Upon the metamorphosis in view, — [soil 
" Farewell! " they mutually exclaim'd, *<this 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; 
One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid. 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIV. 

** Farewell!" said Juan: ** should we meet no 

more, 

I wish you a good appetite." — ** Farewell!" 

Replied the other; " though it grieves me sore : 

When we next meet, we'll have a tale to tell; 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from 

shore. [once fell." 

Keep your good name, though Eve herself 

<< Nay," quoth the maid, ** the Sultan's self 

shan't carry me, 
Unless his Highness pronuses to marry me," 



666 



DON JUAN. 



1821. 



LXXXV. 
And thus they parted, each by separate doors; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room. 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble 
floors. 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers: 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume; 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 
The giant door was broad, and bright, and 
high, [guise; 

Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious 
W^'arriors thereon w^ere battling furiously; 
Here stalks the victor, theret he vanquish'd 
lies; 
There captives led in triumph droop the eye. 
And in perspective many a squadron flies: 
It seems the work of times before the line 
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose. 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride; 

The gate so splendid was in all \\.s features,* 

You never thought about those little creatures 

LXXXVIII. 
Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 
Whose color was not black, nor w^hite, nor 
grey. 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may: 
They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and 

dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and 

though [times — 

They look'd so little, did strong things at 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 

The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' 

rhymes; [bow, 

I nd now and then, -.vith tough strings of the 

As is the custom of these Eastern climes, 
To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; 
For mutes are generally used for that. 



* Features of a gate — a minLsterial metaphor : " the 
featicre upon which this question hi>:ges." See the 
" Fudge Family," or hear Castlcreagh, 



XC. 
They spoke by signs — that is, spoke not at all ; 

And, looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds: it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small. 

With shrinking serpen*: optics on him stared; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'ertheyfix'd their eyes on. 

XCI. 
Before they enter'd Baba paused to hint 

To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 
** If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 

That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 
'Twould be as well, and (though there's not 
much in't) 

To swing a little less from side to side. 
Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; — 
And also could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 
'Twould be convenient, for these mutes have 
eyes [coats; 

Like needles, which may pierce those petti- 
And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus 
floats; 
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise. 

To find our way to Marmora without boats, 
Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
A good deal practiced here upon occasion."* 

XCIII. 
W^ith this encouragement he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last: 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry anything away. 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter. 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much; 
such things 
Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings 
(Of which I have also seen some six or seven), 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven; 



* A few years ago the wife of ^luchtar Pacha corr- 
plained to his father of his son's supposed infidelity : l.c 
asked with whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a 
list ot the twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They 
were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the 
lake the same nijjht. One of the guards who was pres- 
ent informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a 
cry, or sliowcd a symptom of terror at so sudden a 
" wrttnch from all we know, from aU w^ Iqvc-" 



l82I. 



DON JUAN, 



667 



Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pic- 
tures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 
In this imperial hall at distance lay, 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray. 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his 

mind [bended 

What all this meant; while Baba bow'd and 

His head, until the ceremony ended. 

xcvi. 
The lady, rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
Bent, like an Antelope, a Paphian pair [gem; 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding 
And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 

She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 
Of her deep purple robe, and, speaking low, 
Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind. 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

O^ forms and features; it would strike you 
Could I do justice to the full detail : [blind. 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail, 

XCVIII. 
This much, however, I may add, — her years 

Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty 

springs; [bears. 

But there are forms which Time to touch for- 

And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 
Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots. True, tears 

And love destroy, and sapping sorrow wrings 
Charms from the charmer; yet some never grow 
Ugly : for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen. 
And were all clad alike; like Juan, too. 

Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen: 
They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 
** cousin," 
As far as outward show may correspond; 
I won't be bail for anything beyond. 

C. 
They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 
But not by the same door through which came 
in 



Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring. 

At some small distance, all he saw within 
This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 

Marvel and praise; for both or none things 
win : • 

And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 
Great happiness of the ** Nil Admirari.'* 

CI. 
" Not to admire is all the art I know [of speech) 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers 
To make men happy, or to keep thena so" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech) ; 
Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach 
From his translation; but had none admi7-ed^ 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been in- 
spired? 

CII. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 

Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A second time desired him to kneel down. 

And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim, when 
He heard repeated, Juan, with a frown 

Drew himself up to his full height again, 
And said, ** It grieved him, but he could not 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." [stoop 

cm. 
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride. 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bow-string — quite in vain; not yet 
Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's 
bride; 

There's nothing in the world like etiquette 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 
As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 

About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 
The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 

Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end: 
At length, perceiving the '[/i?^/" could not stand, 
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

cv. 
Here was an honorable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, [guise; 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful 

And Juan now his willingness exprest 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South, the custom still com- 
mands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 



668 



DON JUAN, 



1821. 



And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorough-bred* or fairer 

No lips e'er left their transitory trace : [fingers 
On suchifls these the lip too fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love shall bring 
hers TS^^'^ 

In contact; and sometimes even a fair stran- 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

evil. 
The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style. 
As if well used to the retreating trade; 

And taking hints in good part all the while. 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid; 

And, looking on him with a sort of smile. 
Took leave with such a face of satisfaction. 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous 
action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone,there was a sudden change: 
I know not what might be the lady's thought. 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult 

strange, [brought. 

And into her clear cheek the blood was 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
The verge of heaven; and in her large eyes 
wrought 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd. 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. | 

! 
CIX. j 

Her form had all the softness of her sex, j 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil. 

When he put on the cherub to perplex j 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road! 

to evil; [specks,' 

The sun himself was scarce more free fronr 

Than she from aught at which the eye could; 

cavil; [wanting,! 

Yet somehow there was something somewhere 

As if she rather ordered than was granting. — 

ex. 

Something imperial or imperious threw 
A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain 

Was thrown as 'twere about the neck of you — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view. 
Our souls at least are free; and 'tis in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

* There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
than the haul; it is almost tiie only sign of blood w!i.c! 
aristocracy can generate. 



Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; 

Her very nod was not an inclination: 
There was a self-will even in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her 
station — 
They trod as upon necks; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not 
mine!) 

exii. 
** To hear and to obey " had been from birth 

The law of all around her: to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth. 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her 
will; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth; 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 
Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
We should have found out the *' perpetual 
motion." 

exiii. 
Whate'er she saw and coveted, was brought; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And, when 'twas found, straightway the bar- 
gain closed: 
There was no end unto the things she bought. 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Vet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
The women pardon'd all, except her face. 

exiv. 
Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 

Her eye in passing on his way to sale; 
vShe order'd him directly to be bought; 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 

At all such auctions knew how to prevail: 
She had no prudence, but he had, and this 
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

exv. 
His youth and features favor'd the disguise, 

And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 
Could risk, or compass, such strange phantasies, 

This I must leave sultanas to decide: 
Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes. 

And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 
As we may ascertain with due precision. 
Some by experience, others by tradition. 

cxvi. 
But to the main point, where we have been 
lending: — 

She now conceived all difficullies past, 
Aiid deem'd herself cxlremely condescending, 

When, beinj^ made her property at last, 



l82l. 



DON JUAN. 



669 



Without more preface in her blue eyes blending I And, although sensitive to beauty, he 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 1 Felt most indignant still at not being free. 
And merely saying, *' Christian, canst thou CXXII. 

^^ve?" [move. Gulbeyaz, for the first time in ner days, 



Conceived that phrase was quite enough to 

CXVII. 

And so it was, in proper time and place; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was 
glowing. 
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops 
blowing: [spears, 

These words went through his soul like Arab- 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIII. 

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at 
tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking; 
But there is something when man's eye appears 



Was much embarrass'd, never having met, 
In all her life, with aught save prayers and 
praise; 

And as she also risk'd her life to get 
Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 

Into a comfortable tete-^ tete, [tyr; 

To lose the hour would make her quite aniar- 
And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 
I also would suggest the fitting time, 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime; 

With us there is more law given to the chase, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime: 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more will hurt your reputation. 
CXXIV. 



Wet, still more disagreeable and striking, it , j j • u^ i. i_ .-n 

A , . J *^ 1^ ? u ir Tuan s was good, and might have been still 

A woman s tear-drop melts, a man s half sears, -^ & » & 

Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 



better, 

But he had got Haidee into his head: 
However strange, he could not yet forget her, 

Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 

For having had him to her palace led. 
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

CXXV. 

At length in an imperial way, she laid 

Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes 
Which needed not an empire to persuade, 

Look'd into his for love, where none replies: 
Her brow grew black, but she would not up- 
braid, [tries; 
, , ., That being the last thing a proud woman 
'^"L"!'_T.'^^'^h^'"'°''*^"J'°"Y_'^"'''°''' She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, 

threw 



His heart to force it out; for (to be shorter) 
To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 
And she would have consoled, but knew not 
how : 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now. 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting, petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how, so near 
Her eyes, another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 



And when a strong, although a strange, sen- 1 
sation 
Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 

For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation. 
They naturally pour the ** wine and oil," 

Samaritans in eveiy situation; 
And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why. 
Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

cxxi. 

But tears must stop, like all things else; and 
soon 

Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
To such a sorrow, by the intrusive tone i 

Of one who dared to askif *' he //a^ loved, "j 
Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone; 

Bright with the very weakness he reproved; 



Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

cxx VI. 
This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and 
pride: 
W^ith gentle force her white arms he unwound, 

And seated her all drooping by his side, 
Then, rising haughtily, he glanced around. 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
*' The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 
Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy, 
cxx VII. 
Tnou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof 
How much I have loved — that I love not 
ihee! 



670 



DON yUAN. 



I82I, 



In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof 
Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof: [be, 
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a 
throne. 

And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite: [things; 

Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such 
She deem'd her least command must yield de- 
light, 

Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 
Besides, as has been said, she was so fair. 

As even in a much humbler lot had made 
A kingdom or confusion anywhere, 

And also, as may be presum'd, she laid [e'er, 
Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if 

By their possessors thrown into the shade: 
She thought hers gave a double ** right divine;" 
And half of that opinion's also mine. 

cxxx. 
Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine. 

Ye, who have kept your chastity when 

young, 

"While some more desperate dowager has 

been waging [stung 

Love with you, and been in the dog-days 

By your refusal, recollect her raging! 

Or recollect all that was said or sung 
On such a subject; then suppose the face 
Of a young downright beauty in this case, 

cxxxi. 
Suppose — but you already have supposed — 

The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
Phsedra, and all which story has disclosed 

Of good examples; pity that so few by 
Poets and private tutors are exposed. 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by! 
But when you have supposed the few we know, 
You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 
A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey. 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who cannot have their own way; 
But though my turn will not be served with less. 
These don't express one half what I should 
say: 



For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any? 

CXXXIII. 
The love of offspring's nature's general law. 
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and duck- 
lings; [claw. 
There's nothing whets the beak, or arms the 
Like an invasion of their babes and suck- 
lings; 
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
How mothers love their children's squalls 
and chucklings: 
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
Your patience) shows the cause must still be 
stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'Twere nothing, for her eyes flash'd always 
fire; 
Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 

I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 
So supernatural was her passion's rise; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
Even ye who know what a check'd woman is, 
(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short 
of this. 

CXXXV. 
Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 

A moment's more had slain her; but the while 
It lasted, 'twas like a short glimpse of hell: 

Nought's more sublime than energetic bile, 
Though horrible to see, yet grand to tell. 

Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle: 
And the deep passions, flashing through her 
Made her a beautiful embodied storm, [form, 

CXXXVI. 
A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon, 

To match a common fury with her rage; 
And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 

Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal 
Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, [page: 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to ** kill, kill, kill," like 

Lear's, [tears. 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in 

CXXXVIl. 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
Pass'd without words — in fact, she could not 
speak; 

And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak; 

But now it tiow'd in natural and fast, 
As water through an unexpected leak. 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 



l82I. 



DON yUAN 



671 



CXXXVIII. 
It teaches them that thev are flesh and blood, 

It also gently hints to them that others, 
Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile 
brothers, 
And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 
Though not all born of the same sires and 
mothers; 
It teaches — Heaven knows only what it 

teaches. 
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches 

cxxxix. 
Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head; 

Her second to cut only his — acquaintance; 
Her third to ask him where he had been bred; 

Her fourth to rally him into repentance; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to 
sentence 
The lash to Baba; — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry, of course. 

CXL. 
She thought to stab herbcif, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it 
awkward; 
For Eastern stays are little made to pad, 

So that a poniard pierces, if 'tis stuck hard : 
She thought of killing Jaarx— but, poor lad. 
Though he deserved it well for being so 
backward. 
The cutting off his head was not the art 
Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 
Juan was moved: he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
And thus heroically stood resign'd. 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish: 
But all his great preparatives for dying. 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLII. 
As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed, 

So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 
And first he wonder'd why he had refused; 

And then, if matters could be made up now: 
And next his savage virtue he accused. 

Just as a friar may accuse his vow. 
Or as a dame repents her of her oath, [both. 
Which mostly ends in some small breach of 
CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses: 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 



Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 
Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest 

Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses : [chatter, 
Just as a languid smile began to flatter. 

His peace was making, but before he ventured 

Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

" Bride of the Sun! and sister of the Moon! " 

('Twas thus he spake), ** and Empress of 

the Earth! [tune, 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of 

Whose smile makes all the planets dance 

with mirth, [soon — 

Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too 
Which your sublime attention may be worth: 

The Sun himself, has sent me, like a ray, 

To hint that he is coming up this way.'* 

CXLV. 

" Is it," exclaimed Gulbeyaz, ** as you say? 
I wish to heaven he would not shine till 
morning! 
But bid my women form the milky way. 
Hence, my old comet! give the stars due 
warning — 
And, Christian, mingle with them as you may, 
And as you'd have me pardon your past 

scorning " 

Here they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, ** The Sultan's 



coming: 



CXLVI. 



First came her damsels, a decorous file, [white. 
And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and 

The train might reach a quarter of a mile: 
His Majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visits a long while 
Before he came, especially at night; 

For being the last wife of the Emperor, 

She was, of course, the favorite of the four. 

CXLVII. 

His Highness was a man of solemn port, 
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court. 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mentioned in the histories 

Of Cantemir or Knolles, where few shine. 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line.* 



' It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay. On Empire, hints that Soly^nan was the last 
of his line : on what authority 1 know not. These are 
his words ; " The destruction of Mustapha was so fatal 
to Soly man's line, as the succession of the Turks from 
Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, arid 
of strange blood, for that Solyman II. was thought to be 
supposititious." But Bacon, in his historical authorities, 
is often inaccurate. I could give half-a-dozen instances 
from his apophthegms only. See Appendix to thii Canto. 



672 



DON yUAN. 



1821. 



CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than *' Oriental scrupulosity; " 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity: 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, 
unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime; 

The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip: 
The public knew no more than does this 
rhyme; 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the hsh no worse. 

CL. 

He saw, with his own eyes, the moon was 
round, 

W^as also certain that the earth was square. 
Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found 

No sign that it was circular anywhere; 
His empire also was without a bound: 

'Tis true, a little troubled, here and there. 
By rebel pachas and encroaching giaours. 
But then they never came to the *' Seven 
Towers." 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent [ing 
To lodge there when a war broke out accord- 
To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant. 
Those scoundrels who have never had a 
Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent [sword in 
Their spleen in making strife, and safely 
wording 
Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk or 
The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons. 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd. 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad. 

When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once. 
Sometimes at six years old — though this 
seems odd, 

'Tis true: the reason is, that the Bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire-in-law. 

CLIII. 

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be known unto the Fates alone; 



: Meantime the education they went through 
Was princely, as the proofs have always 

j shown; 

So that the heir-apparent still was found 
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 

CLIV. 

His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
With all the ceremonies of his rank, 

Whoclear'd her sparkling eyes, and smoothed 
her brows. 
As suits a matron who has play'd a prank; 

These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 
To save the credit of their breaking bank; 

To no men are such cordial greetings given. 

As those whose wives have made them fit for 
heaven. 

CLV. 

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan amongst the damsels in disguise. 

At which he seem*d no whit surprised nor 
grieved; 

But just remark'd, with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

** I see you've bought another girl; 'tis pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty. *> 

CLVI. 

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
The new-bought virgin, made her blush 
and shake. [done: 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves un- 
O Mahomet! that his Majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake! 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle; 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLVII. 

The Turks do well to shut — at least some- 
times — 

The women up; because, in sad reality. 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality. 
Which, in the North, prevents precocious 
crimes, [morality; 

And makes our snow less pure than our 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice. 
Has (juite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus in the East they are extremely strict. 
And wedlock and a padlock mean the same; 

Excepting only when the former's pick'd. 
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame: 

Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd: 
But then their own polygamy's to blame; 

Why don't they knead two virtuous souls fo*' 

Into that mural centaur, man and wife? [life. 



i82s. ^ox ycAX. 673 

CLIX. I Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 

Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime: 

Though not for want of matter; but 'tis time, Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, per- 
According to the ancient epic laws, | haps 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. You'll pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE TO CANTOS VI., VII., AND VIII. 
1823. 

The details of the siege of Ismail, in two of the following cantos (z*. e., the teventh and eighth), were taken 
from the French work entitled Hisioire de la Nouvelle Russie. Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan 
really occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving the infant, which was the acutal case of the late Due 
de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian service, and afterwards thefounderandbenefactor of Odessa, 
where his name and memory can never cease to be regarded with reverence. 

In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but 
written some time before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died with him, they would have been sup- 
pressed: as it is, I am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of his life to prevent the free expression of 
the opinions of all whom his whole existence was consumed in endeavoring to enslave. That he was an amiable 
man in. private life, may or may not be true; but with this the public have nothing to do: and as to lamenting his 
death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of mil- 
lions, looked upon him as one of the most despotic in intention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized 
over a country. It is the first time indeed, since the Normans, that England has been insulted by a tninister (at 
least) who could not speak English, and that Parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, except that, if a poor Radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and 
mallet. But the minister was an elegant lunatic — a sentimental suicide; he merely cut the "carotid artery" 
(blessings on their learning !), and lo ! the pageant, and the Abbey, and " the syllables of dolor yelled forth " by 
the newspapers, and the harangue of the coroner in an eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased (an Antony 
worthy of such a Caesar); and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators against 
all that is sincere and honorable. In his death he was necessarily one of two things by the law — a felon or a 
madman — and in either case no great subject for panegyric. In his life he was — what all the world knows, and 
half of it will feel for years to come, unless his death prove a "moral lesson" to the surviving Sejani* of 
Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation to the nations that their oppressors are not happj', and in some 
instances judge so justly of their own actions as to anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us hear no more of 
tliis man; and let Ireland remove the ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall the patriot 
of humanity repose by the Werther of politics ! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have been made, on another score, to the already published cantos of this 
poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from Voltaire: "La pudeur s'est enfuite des cceurs, et s'est 
refugiee sur les levres." . . . . " Plus les moeurs sont depravees, plus les expressions deviennent mesurees; on croit 
regagneren langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and hypocrirical mass which leavens the present English 
generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasphemer — which, with 
Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, &c., are the changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of 
those who will listen — should be welcome to all who recollect on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and 
Jesus Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so have been, and may be, many who dare to oppose the 
most notorious abuses of the name of God and the mind of man.. But persecution is not refutation, nor even 
triumph: the " wretched infidel," as he is called, is probably happier in his prison, than the proudest of his 
assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do — they may be right or wrong; but he has suffered for them, 
and that verv suffering for conscience' sake will make more proselytes to deism than the example of heterodox 
prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, or overpensioned homicides to the impious alliance 
which insults the world with the name of " Holy! " I have no wish to trample on the dishonored or the dead; 
but it would be well if the adherents to the classes from whence those persons sprung should abate a little of the 

cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing and falsc-speakmg time of selfish spoilers, and but enough 

for the present 

Pisa, July, 1822. 

* From this number must be excepted Canning. Canning is a genius, almost a universal one, an orator, a wit, 
a poet, a statesman; and no man of talent can long pursue the path of his late predecessor. Lord C. If ever man 
saved his coimtry, Cannmg can^ but will he ? I, lor one, hope so. 



CANTO THE SIXTH. 



I. 

** There is a tide in the affairs of men, [rest, 

Which, taken at the flood " * — you know the 

And most of us have found it, now and then; 



Se« Shakspeare's Julius Casar, act iv., scene 3. 



At least we think so, though but few have 
The moment, till too late to come again ;[guess'd 

But no doubt everything is for the best — 

Of which the surest sign is in the end: [mend. 

When things are* at the worst, they sometimes 

43 



674 



DOX yUAX. 



iS23. 



There is a tide in the affairs of women, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads — God 
knows where: 
Those navigators must be al^le seamen, 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen,* [pare: 
With its strange whirls and eddies, can corn- 
Men with their heads reflect on this and that — I 
But women with their hearts on Heaven knows! 
what. 

III. 

And yet a headlong,headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be [risk 
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 

The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk, 

Though such as she's a devil (if there be one), 

Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 

IV. 
Thrones, worlds, ei cetera^ are so oft upset 

By commonest ambition, that when passion 
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 

Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
If Antony be well remember'd yet, [fashion, 

'Tis not his conquests keep his name in 
But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 

V. 
He died at fifty, for a queen of forty; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty; 

For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a 

sport — I [plenty 

Remember when, though I had no great 

Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart; as the world 

went, I [could never 

Gave what was worth a world; for worlds 

Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever. 

VI. 

'Twas the boy's " mite," and, like the " wid- 
ow's," may 

Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now; 
But whether such things do or do not weigh. 

All who have loved or love will still allow 
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say; 

And Love's a god, or was before the brow 
Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 

VII. 
We left our hero and third heroine in [mon; 

A kind of state more awkward than uncom- 



♦ A visionary bom at Gorlitz m- Upper Lusatia in 
X575. He founded a sect called Bchmenites. 



jFor gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin; 
I For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 
I And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
I Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,* 
jWho lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

I VIII. 

I I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; 
! I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; 

But I detest all fiction, even in song, [it. 

And so must tell the truth, hcrvve'eryou blame 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could 
she claim it) 
W^as scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, ** an arithmetician," 
But by *< the bookish theoric " it appears, 

If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision. 
That, adding to the account his Highness' 

The fair Sultana err'd from inanition; [years. 
For were the Sultan just to all his dears. 

She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that women are litigious 
Upon all legal objects of possession. 

And not the least so when they are religious. 
Which doubles what they think of the 
transgression; 

With suits and prosecutions they besiege us. 
As the tribunals show through many a session, 

When they suspect that any one goes shares 

In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 
XI. 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 

The heathen also, though with less latitude, 
Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 
And take what kings call **an imposing 
attitude;" 
And for their rights connubial make a stand, 
When their liege husbands treat them with 
ingratitude; 
And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 
The Tigris hath its jealousies, like Thames. 

XII. 
Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
The favorite; but what's favor amongst four? 



* Gate gave up his wife, Martia, to his friend Horten- 
sius , but, on the death of the latter, took her back 
again. This conduct was ridiculed by the Romans, who 
observed, that Martia entered the house of Hortensius 
very poor, but returned to the bed of Cato loaded with 
treasures. — Plittarch. 



i823. 



DON yUAN, 



675 



Polygamy may well be held in dread, 

Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 
Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed. 

Will scarcely find philosophy for more; 
And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
To make the nuptial couch a '* Bed of Ware." 
XIII. i 

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 

So styled according to the usual forms 1 

Of every monarch, till they are consign'd i 

To those sad hungry Jacobins, the worms, j 
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — ' 
His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms. 
Expecting all the welcome of a lover [over). 
(A <* Highland welcome " * all the wide world 

XIV. 
Now, here we should distinguish; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that. 
May look like what is — neither here nor there, 

They are put on as easily as a hat. 
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 

Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
Which form an ornament, but no more part 
Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 
A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown. 
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
A sincere woman's breast, — for oY^r-warm 
Or owQx-cold annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 
For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth; 

If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire; 
For no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire. 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount: while your over-chilly 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly. 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste. 

For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd. 

And see a sentimental passion glow. 
Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 

In his monastic concubine of snow: 
In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
Horatian, Medio tu tutissitnus ibis. 

XVIII. 
The 'Uu" 's too much — but let it stand — the, 
verse i 

R equires it, that's to say, the English rhyme, ! 
* See Waver ley. 



And not the pink of old hexameters; 

But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 
In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 

And was thrust in to close the octave's 
I own no prosody can ever rate it [chime: 
As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 
Is much in most things, not less in the heart, 

Than other articles of female dress: 
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; 

They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; 
And no one virtue yet, except starvation. 
Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose: 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sieep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; 

Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep : 
'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 
A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 
At a percentage; a child cross, dog ill, 

A favorite horse fallen lame, just as he's 
mounted, 
A bad old woman making a worse will. 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you 
counted 
As certain — these are paltry things, and yet 
I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 
I'm a philosopher: confound them all! [kind! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not woman- 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call. 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind; 

Though what is soul or mind, their birth or 

growth, [both! 

Is more than I know — the deuce take them 

XXIII. 
So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 



676 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



XXIV. 
Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 

At least one of them I — Oh, the heavy night, 
When wicked wives, who love some bachelor. 

Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
Of the grey morning, and look vainly for 

Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite — 
'I'o toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 
l.est their too lawful bed-fellow should wake! 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
Also beneath the canopy of beds, 

P^our posted, and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their 

heads [** driven 

Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 
Snow." Well, 'tis all haphazard when one 

Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been [weds. 

Perhaps as wretched if a peasanfs quean. 

XXVI. 
Don Juan in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 
Hadbow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, 

And at the usual signal ta'en their way 
Back to their chambers, those long galleries 

In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
Beating for love, as the caged birds for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's* wish, *' that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might 
pierce." 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad. 

And much more tender, on the whole, than 
fierce; 
It being (not now^ but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth. 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

O enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads if thou hadst all things multi- 
plied [stands 

Jn such proportion! — But my Muse with- 
The giant Uiought of being a Titan's bride. 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands; 
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love. 

In which we left him several lines above. 



* Caligula. — See Suetonius. " Being in a rage at the 
people for favoring a party in the Circensian games in 
opposition to him, he cried out, ' I wish the Roman 
people had but one neck.' " 



XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,* 

At the given signal join'd to their array; 
And though he certainly ran many risks, 

Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, 
(Although the consequences of such frisks 

Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
In moral England, where the thing's a tax), 
From ogling all their charms from breasts to 
backs. 

XXX. 
Still he forgot not his disguise: — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 
A virgin-like and edifying throng. 

By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there 
stalked 
A dame who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or 
talk'd 
Without her sanction, on their she-parades: 
Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 



Whether she was a *' mother," I know not, 

Or whether they were " maids " who call'd 
But this is her seraglio-title, got [her mother; 

I know not how, but good as any other; 
So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: 

Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they 
blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men— 

Except his majesty, — who, with her aid, 
And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now 
and then 

A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 

Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 

Where all the passions have, alas! but one rent 

XXXIII. 

And what is that? Devotion, doubtless — how- 
Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries, at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow. 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill — 

Or rather lake — for ri//s do ncf run slowly — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, 

there [loose, 

Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites, broke 

* The ladies of the Seraglio. 




>. 



i 



^ 






'^'^Mfl^fl^ 



^T' 










* Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm : 
Kaiinka ivas a Georgian, white and red.^* 



'A kiyid of sleepy Vemis seeni\i Dudu.^* 



Don Juan. C. VI., 3t, xliL 



1823. 



DON JUAN, 



677 



Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere, 

When freed from bonds (which are of no 

After all), or like Irish at a fair, [great use 

Their guards being gone, and as it were a 

truce 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 
Their talk, of course, ran most on the ncw: 
comer; | 

Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: ' 
Some thought her dress did not so much be- \ 
come her, i 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring; ! 
Some said her years were getting nigh their 
summer; 
Others contended they were but in spring : 
Some thought her rather masculine in height. 
While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. 
But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 

Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, | 

And fresh, and ** beautiful exceedingly," i 

Who with the brightest Georgians might 

compare ;* | 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be I 

So silly as to buy slaves who might share ! 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) I 

Her throne and power, and everything beside. 

XXXVII. ; 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, j 

Although her beauty was enough to vex, j 
After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few, or fewer, specks 
In the fair form of their companion new, 

Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 
When they survey, with Christian eyes or 

Heathen, 
In a new face, ** the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 

And yet they had their little jealousies. 

Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, j 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation, 

Although they could not see through his dis-, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, [guise. 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that. 
XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis they all felt for their new | 

Companion something newer still, as 'twere' 



* " It is in the adjacent climates of Georgia, Mingre- 
lia,ancl Circassia, that nature has placed, at least to our 
eyes, the model of beauty, in the shape of the limbs, the 
color of the skin, the symmetry of the features, and the 
expression of the countenance ; the men are formed for 
action, the women for lov^e. — Gibbon. 



A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all con- 
In wishing her their sister, save a few [cur 
Who wish'd they had a brother just like her. 
Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circas- 
They would prefer to Padishah* or Pacha, [sia, 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and DudCi; in short 

(To save description), fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country and com- 
plexion; 

They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red. 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made 
to tread, 
But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed. 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and 

lazy. 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 

A kind of sleeping Venus seem'd Dudti, 
Yet very fit to ** murder sleep" in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue. 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose; 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true; 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce 
lose: 

Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to pare, 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but [iiigJ 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day break- 

Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut. 
They put beholders in a tender taking; 

She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 
From marble, like a Pygmalion's statue 
waking, 

The mortal and the marble still at strife. 

And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
** Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 
** From Spain." — ** But where e> Spain?" — 
** Don't ask such stuff; [shame!" 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for 



♦Padishah is the Turkish title for the Grand Signior. 



678 



DON JUAN, 



1823. 



Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
To poor Katinka. ** Spain's an island near 
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
luanna, playing with her veil or hair; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 
As if she pitied her for being there; 

A pretty stranger without friend or guide, 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 

Which welcomes hapless strangers in all 
places. 

With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

XL VI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 
With, *' Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 

I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
She added to Juanna, their new guest: 

" \'our coming has been unexpected here, 
And every couch is occupied: you had best 

Partake of mine; but by to-r.orrow early 

We will have all things settled for you fairly." 

XLVII. 

Here Lolah interposed: *' Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 

That anybody should disturb you so: 

I'll take Juanna, we're a slenderer pair [no. 

Than you would make the half of; — don't say 
And I of your young charge will take due 

But here Katinka interfered, and said [care." 

** She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIII. 

** Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd: '' Why so?" — ** For 
fear of ghosts," 
Replied Katinka; ** I am sure I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts: 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be. 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and 
Gouls, in hosts." [and you. 

The dame replied, ** Between your dreams 
I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few." 

XLIX. 
** You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you 
The same, Katinka, until by and by; 

And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 
Who's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, [through. 
And will not toss and chatter the night 
What say you, child?" — Dudu said nothing, as 
Her talents were of the more silent class: 

L. 

But she r(^se ujj, and kiss'<l llu- matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and I ,(>luh on bolli cheeks. 



Katinka too; and with a gentle bow [Greeks) 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor 
She took Juanna by the hand, to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their 
piques. 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudti, though they held their tongues, from 
deference. 

LI. 
It was a spacious chamber (Oda is [wall 

The Turkish title), and ranged round the 
Were couches, toilets — and much more than 

I might describe, as I have seen it all, [this 
But it suffices — little was amiss; 

'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 
With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning. 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sin> 
ning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature, 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning. 

Full of expression, right or wrong, they strike, 

And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
Where all was harmony, and calm, and 
quiet. 

Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, 
Whichjif not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth. 
Which some call ** the sublime:" I wish 
they'd try it. 

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy. 

And serious more than pensive, and serene 
It may be more than either — not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to 
have been. . [whv)lly 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seven- 
teen. 
That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; 
She never thought about herself at all. 
LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
The Age of (iold (when gold was yet un- 
known, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass; 
Thui most appropriately has been shown 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



670 



" Lucus S, non lucendo," not what wasy 

But what was not ; a sort of style that's 
grown 
Extremely common in this age, whose metal 
The devil may decompose, but never settle: 

LVI. 

I think it may be of *< Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost). Kind reader, pass 
This long parenthesis — I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ; which 
meaneth, put 

A kind construction upon them and me: [free. 

But that you won't — then don't — I'm not less 

LVII. 
'Tis time we should return to plain narration. 

And thus my narrative proceeds: — Dudii, 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna,through and through 
This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what's strange — in words ex- 
tremely few: 
I've but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 
The gender still was epicene, at least 

In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
An outline of the customs of the East, 

With all their chaste integrity of laws. 
By which the more a harem is increased. 

The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 

Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss: 
Dudii was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss. 

Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than 
this— 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

** Kiss " rhymes to ** bliss " in fact as well as 
verse — 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of nature, carelessly array'd : 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd, 
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 



And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside, but not before she offer'ti 
Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance prof- 

fer'd; [less; 

Which pass'd well off — as she could do no 

Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, 
Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins. 
Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 
Making a woman like a porcupine, [dread. 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more 

ye, whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine 
In early youth, to turn a lady's maid; — 

1 did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade: 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 



But these are foolish things to all the wise. 
And I love wisdom more than she loves me; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 
What are we? and whence came we? what 
shall be 

Our ultimate existence? what's our present? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 

And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants; if there be sprites, 

They should have walk'd there in their spright- 
liest trim. 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 
Many and beautiful lay those around. 

Like flowers of diff"erent hue, and clime, and 
In some exotic garden sometimes found, [root. 
With cost, and care, and warmth, induced 
to shoot. 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 

And fair brows gently drooping as the fruit 

Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft 

breath, [neath. 

And lips apart, which show'd the pearls be- 

LXVI. 

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white 
arm. 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 



68o 



DON JUAN, 



1823. 



Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And smiling through her dream, as through 

a cloud [charm, 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further 

As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of 
All bashfully to struggle into light. [night 

LXVII. 
This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 
'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath 
be©n said. 
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some 

far shore, 

Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd 

(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' 

dark fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 

Or Lot's wife done in salt — or what you will ; — 
My similes are gather'd in a heap. 

So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 



And lo! a fifth appears: — and what is she? 

A lady of a ** certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see 

As ere that awful period intervenes 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. ' 

LXX. 
But all this tin»e how slept, or dream'd, Dudti? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over. 

Just when the fading lamps waned dim and 

blue, [hover. 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to 

To those who like their company, about 

The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out: 

LXXI. 
And that so loudly, that up started all 

The Oda in a general commotion: 
Matrons and maids, and those whom you may 
call [ocean 

^'either, came cro" Hing like the wave? of 
One on the other, throughout the v/hole hall, 



All trembling, wondering, without the least 
notion 
More than I have myself of what could make 
The calm Dudti so turbulently wake. 

LXXI I. 
But wide awake she was; and round her bed, 

With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 

And bosoms, arms, and ankles, glancing bare. 
And bright as any meteor ever bred [care, 

By the North Pole — they sought her cause of 
For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 
Her eye dilated, and her color heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 
But what is strange — and a strong proof how 

A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay [great 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

In holy matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamor broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her — so they say 
At least — and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, 
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise, 

LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation. 
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than 
once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudti had never pass'd for wanting sense. 

But, being "no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 
LXXV. 

At length she said that, in a slumber sound, 

She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 
A ** wood obscure," * like that where Dante 
found 
Himself in at the age when all grow good; 
Life's half-way house, where dames with 
virtue crown'd. 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; 
And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 
And trees of goodly growth and spreading 
roots; 

LXXVI. 

And in the midst a golden apple grew — 
A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 

Rather too high and distant; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 

Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 
Iking down the fruit, which still perverse!' 
clung 

* " Ncl mezzo del cammin di nostra vita 
Ml ritrovai per una sc1vr> csciira " 

Ii^fono^ Canto I. 



1823. 



moN yuAX. 



68j 



To its own bough and dangled yet in sight, 
But always at a most provoking height; 



LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
It fell down of its own accord, before 

Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core; 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out, and stung her to the heart. 

And so — she woke with a great scream and 
start. 

LXXVIII. 

All this she told with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 

IVe known some odd ones which seem'd really 
plann'd 
Prophetically, or that which one deems 

A ** strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things are settled now-a-days. 

LXXIX. j 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great i 
Began, as is the consequence of fear, [harm, i 

To scold a little at the false alarm i 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. | 

The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm | 

Bed, for the dream she had been obliged! 

to hear. i 

And chafed at poor Dudti, who only sigh'd. 

And said that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

** I've heard of stories of a cock and bull; 

But visions of an apple and a bee. 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past 
three. 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child! we must see,! 
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 
** And poor Juanna, too, the child's first night 

Within these walls, to be broke in upon 
With such a clamor — I had thought it right 

That the young stranger should not lie alone. 
And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, DudU, a good night's rest have 
known; 
But now I must transfer her to the charge 
Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition; 

Bui pool Dudii,vvith large drcpsinher o.vn, 



Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 
Implored that present pardon might be shown 

For this first fault, and that on no condition 
(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 

Juanna should be taken from her, and 

Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream. 
At least to dream so loudly as just now, 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg'd they would excuse her: she'd get 
over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXI V. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed. 

And said she felt herself extremely well 
Where she then was, as her sound sleep 
disclosed. 

When all around rang like a tocsin bell. 
She did not find herself the least disposed 

To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 
Apart from one who had no sin to show. 
Save that of dreaming once vial-a-propos. 

LXXXV. 
As thus Juanna spoke, Dudti turned round, 

And hid her face within Juanna's breast; 
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 

The color of a budding rose's crest. 
I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 

The mystery of this rupture of their rest; 
All that I know is, that the facts I state 
Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXVI. 

And SO good night to them — or, if you will. 
Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, [ligl^t 

And the mosque-crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which, in the chill 
Of dewy dawn, wound slowly down each 
height. 

That stretches to the stony belt which girds 

Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather grey, of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness: and pale 

As passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn 
Which fable places in her breast of wail. 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their propei 



682 



DON yUAiW 



\%2:, 



LXXXVIII. 

And that's the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift; 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 



Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you be 

Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 

xciv. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 



Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ;,rp, ^, ^ . i- j iiu u 

,,,,., ^ ^^. -^11 4. iri. r 1 I That hater of mankind, would be a shame 
While gentle writers also love to lift [ral,' * 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natu- 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter 

all. 

LXXXIX. 



Rose the Sultana from a bed of splendor, 

Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
Aloud because his feelings were too tender 

To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 
So beautiful that art could little mend her. 

Though pale with conflicts between love 
So agitated was she with her error, [and pride: 
She did not even look into the mirror. 

xc. 
Also arose about the self-same time. 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord. 
Master of thirty kingdoms, so sublime. 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

XCI. 
He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other: as a man. 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan. 
And therefore of Circassians had good store. 

As an amusement after the Divan; 
Though an unusual fit of love or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 
And now he rose; and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers and other pious evolutions. 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least. 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander, 
Her son's son, let not this last phrase ofl^end 

Thine ear, if it should reach — and now rhymes 
wander 
Almost as far as Petersburg, and lend 

A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 



A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on; 
But people's ancestors are history's game: 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should like to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show? 

xcv. 
Had Catherine and the Sultan understood 

Theii own true interest, which kings rarely 
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, [know 

There was a way to end their strife, al- 
though 
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 

Without the aid of prince or plenipo: 
She to dismiss her guards, and he his harem. 
And for their other matters meet and share 'em. 

xcvi. 
But, as it was, his Highness had to hold 

His daily council upon ways and means, 
How to encounter w^ith this martial scold, 

This modern Amazon, and queen of queans; 
And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCVII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone. 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses: — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers. 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIII. 

Mother-of-pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 

Vied with each other in this costly spot; 
And singing birds without were heard to 
warble; [grot 

And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair 
Varied each ray; but all descriptions garble 

The true effect, and so we had better not 
Be too minute; an outline is the best — 
A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 
And here she summon'd Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and informa,tion 



Of murmuring Liljerty's wide waves, which Of what had pass'd since all the slaves rvllred, 
1)1(11(1 i And whether lie had occupied their station; 



1825. 



DON JUAN, 



683 



If matters had been managed as desired, 

And his disguise with due consideration 
Kept up; and above all, the where and how 
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd 
to know. 

c. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
More easily than answer'd — that he had tried 
His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to 
hide, 
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience. 

Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; 
She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; 
And as his speech grew still more broken- 
kneed, 
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and 
darkle. 

cil. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he 
knew 

To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
Her anger, and beseech'd she'd hear him 
through — 

He could not help the thing which he related : 
Then out it came, at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; 
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. 
The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 

The discipline of the whole harem bore, 
As soon as they re-entered their own room. 

For Baba's function stopt short at the door, 
Had settled all; nor could he then presume 

(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 
Without exciting such suspicion as 
Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure, 
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 

'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure. 
But ended in his being found out and sack\i. 

And thrown into the sea.— Thus Baba si)oke | 

(Jf all save Dudu's (heam, which was no joke. I 



cv. 

This he discreetly kept in the background, 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till 

For any further answer that he found, [now, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow; 

Her cheeks turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain 

whirl'd round. 

As if she had received a sudden blow. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and 

chilly 
O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 

cvi. 
Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
Baba thought she would faint; but there he 
err'd — 
It is but a convulsion, which, though short, 

Can never be describ'd: we all have heard. 

And some of us have felt, thus, ^^ all ar?iort,'''' 

When things beyond the common have oc- 

curr'd — 

Gulbeyaz proved, in that brief agony, fl? 

What she could ne'er express — then how should 

CVII. 

She stood a moment as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 

Of inspiration gather'd from distress, [pull 
When all the heart-strings, like wild horses, 

The heart asunder: — then, as more or less 
Their speed abated or their strength grew 
dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling 
knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined, and was unseen; her hair 

Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair. 

Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, 
A low, soft ottoman), and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow. 
Which rushes to some shore whose shingles 

check 
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

CIX. 
Her head hung down, and her long hair in 
stooping 

Conceal'd her features better than a veil; 
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale; 
Would that I were a painter, to be grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail! 
Oh that my words were colors; but their tints 
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 



684 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to 

Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will, [balk 
At length she rose up, and began to walk 

Slowly along the room, but silent still, 
And her brow clear'd,but not her troubled eye ; 
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 
She stoppM, and raised her head to speak — 
but paused, 

And then moved on again with rapid pace; 
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most 
caused 

By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace ; 
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd | 

Their work even by the way in which he trode. 

CXII. j 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd, and beckon'd Baba: — 1 
*< Slave! 
Bring the two slaves !" she said in a low tone, ' 
But one which Baba did not like to brave; 
And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather 
prone 
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be 
shown 
What slaves her Highness wish'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error, like the late. 

CXIII. 
** The Georgian and her paramour," replied 

The imperial bride; and added, '* Let the 
boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side. [throat, 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride; 

And of this Baba willingly took note. 
And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard. 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIV. I 

*♦ To hear is to obey," he said; ** but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence: | 

It is not that I shall not all fulfil | 

Your orders, even in their severest sense; 
But such precipitation may end ill, 

Even at your own imperative expense: 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case of any premature disclosure; 

cxv. 
** But your own feelings. Even should all the 
rest I 

Be hidden by the rolling waves which hide | 



You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 

And if this violent remedy be tried — 
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you 
That killing him is not the way to cure you." 



Alrearly many 
Jjctp in th^ 



once love-beaten br(\ist 
cave 1 Ho cf tbt 



** What dost thou know of love or feeling — 
Wretch! ["and do 

Begone!" she cried with kindling eyes, — 
My bidding!" Baba vanish'd, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further, he well knew 

Might end in acting as his own ** Jack 

Ketch;" [through 

And though he wish'd extremely to get 
This awkward business without harm to others. 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXVII. 

Away he went then upon his commission. 
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish 
phrase, 

Against all women of whate'er condition. 
Especially sultanas and their ways; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, [days. 
Their never knowing their own mind two 

The trouble that they gave, their immorality. 

Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
And sent one on a summons to the pair. 

That they must instantly be well array'd. 
And above all be comb'd even to a hair, 

And brought before the Empress, who had 
made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care; 

At which Dudti look'd strange, and Juan silly. 

But they must go at once, and will I — nill I. 

cxix. 
And here I leave them at their preparation 

For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration 

Or got rid of the parties altogether. 
Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 

Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
May settle: but far be't from me to anticipate 
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present with good wishes. 
Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 

Another part of history; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes 
change. 

And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
Although the situation now seems strange. 

And scarce secure, as such digressions ^zr^ fair, 

The muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



1823. 



DON JUAN, 



68s 



CANTO THE SEVENTH. 



1823. 



O Love! O Glory! what are ye who Hy 
Around us ever, rarely to alight? 

There's not a meteor in the polar sky 
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 

Chill, and chainM to cold earth, we lift on high 
Our eyes in search of either lovely light; 

A thousand and a thousand colors they 

Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

IL 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A nondescript and ever-vaiying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail 
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime [us, 

To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 

JV/ial, after ally are all things — but a s/w7v ? 
III. 

They accuse me — Me — the present writer of 



By their examples of true Christianity: 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it; 

And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet. 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife. 

From holding up the nothingness of life? 

VII. 

Dogs, or men! — for I flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for the baying 
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw 
one ray 

From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath, 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

" Fierce loves and faithless wars" — I am not 
sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter; 



The present poem— of— I know not what— I The fact's about the same, I am secure: 



A tendency to underrate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that: 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ! 

I say no more than hath been said in Dante's 

V^erse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes. 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 

By F^nelon, by Luther, and by Plato; 
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 

Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 
'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 

For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
Nor even Diogenes — We live and die. 
But which is best, you know no more than I. 

V. 
Socrates said, our only knowledge was 

** To know that nothing could be known; " 
a pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas. 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries 
recent, 
That he himself felt only ** like a youth 
Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth." 
VI. 

Ecclesiastes said that ** all is vanity " — [it 
Most modem preachers say the same, or show 



I sing them both, and am about to batter 
A town which did a famous siege endure. 

And was beleaguer'd,both by land and water, 
By Souvaroff", or Anglice Suwarrow, [row. 
Who loved blood as an alderman loves mar- 



The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the Oriental taste. 

But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 

Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 
Which with your conquerors is a common 
prank : 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 



Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised, along the height 
Upon the left, which from its loftier station 

Commands the city, and upon its site 
A Greek had raised around this elevation 

A quantity of palisades upright. 
So placed as to impede the fire of those 
Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 
This circumstance may serve to give a notion 

Of the high talents of this new Vauban: 
But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 

The rampart higher than you'd wish to hang : 



686 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



But then there was a great want of precaution 

(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), 
Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way, wasi 
there, I 

To hint at least ** Here is no thoroughfare." 

XII. 
But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 

And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet : 
Two batteries, cap-^-pie, as our St. George, 

Casemated one, and t'other a barbette. 
Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; 

While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, 
Rose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier. 
Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 
But from the river the town's open quite, 

Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight; | 
And such their creed was, till they were in- 
vaded, 
When it grew rather late to set things right. 

But as the Danube could not well be waded, 
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 
And only shouted '< Allah!" and **Bis Millah!" 

XIV. 
The Russians now were ready to attack; 
But, O ye goddesses of war and glory. 
How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque, j 
Who were immortal, could one tell their 
x\las! what to their memory can lack? [story? 
Achilles' self was not more grim and gory ' 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, ' 
Whose names want nothing but — pronuncia- 
tion. 

XV. I 

Still I'll record a few, if but to increase ' 

Our euphony; there was Strongenoff, andj 
Strokonoff, 
Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arseniew of modern 
Greece, [Chokenoff, ' 

And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and 
And others of twelve consonants apiece; 
And more might be found out, if I could 
poke enough 
Into gazettes; but fame (capricious strumpetj. 
It seems, has got an ear, as well as trumpet, | 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme : 

Yet there were several worth commemoration. 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime. 

Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
(Jf Londonderry, drawling against time. 

Ending in **ischskin," "ousckin," ^'iffskchy," 
** ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 



Scherematoff, and Chrematoft, Koklophti, 
Koclobskij Kourakin, and Mouskin Pous- 
kin. 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoif 'd high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 
XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown. 
Of various nations, and all volunteers; 

Not fighting for their country or its crown. 
But wishing to be one day brigadfers;' 

Also to have the sacking of a town, 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 

'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 

Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named 
Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; — all the rest 
Had been call'd ^' Jemmy y^ after the great 
bard: 
I don't know whether they had arms or crest. 

But such a godfather's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best 

Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or 

ward. 

Was //f , since so renown'd "in country quarters 

At Halifax: " but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 
The rest were Jacks, and Gills, and Wills, and 
Bills; [Smith 

But when I've added that the elder Jack 
Was born in Cumberland, among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I've said all / know of a name that fills 

Three lines of the dispatch in taking 
*' Schmacksmith," 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 
I wonder (though Mars no doubt's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulUtin 
May make up for a bulletin his body? 
I hope this little question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, [in 
I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, 
Which maiiy people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 
Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, 
and gay; 
But I'm too great a patriot to record 



1823. 



DOM JUAN, 



687 



Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; 

I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth : — such truths are treason : they betray 

Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd 
Who name the French in English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the French- 
man's foe. 

XXIII. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view: 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings, and the private too. 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true: 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation. 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh. 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station: 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox- 
terriers. 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 
The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith ; 

One of the valorous ** Smiths " whom we shall 

miss f" pith;" 

Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 

But 'tis a name so spread o'er "Sir" and 
" Madam," [*< Adam." 

That one would think the first who bore it 

XXVI. 

The Pvussian batteries were incomplete, 

Because they were constructed in a hurry; 
Thus the same cause which makes a verse 
want feet, [Murray, 

And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John 
When the sale of new books is not so fleet 

As they who print them think is necessary, 
May likewise put off, for a time, what story 
Sometimes calls ** murder," and at others 
*' glory." 

XXVII. 

vWhether it was their engineers' stupidity, 
Their haste or waste, I neither know nor care, 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide; but there was no solidity 
Ia the new batteries erected there : 



I They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd^ 
'And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
' Made all their naval matters incorrect: 

Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
j Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: 

The match was lit too s©on, and no assistance 
Could remedy this lubberly defect: 

They blew up in the middle of the river, [as ever. 

While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast 

XXIX. 

i At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla .getting under way; 
Twas nine, when still advancing, undismay'd, 
I Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
jOfif Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 
I W^hich was return'd, with interest, I may say, 
And by a fire of musketry and grape. 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 
For six hours bore they, without intermission. 

The Turkish fire; and, aided by their own 
Land batteries, work'd their guns with great 
precision : 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 
By no means would produce the town's sub- 
mission. 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 
One bark blew up; a second, near the works 
Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, [again, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd 
i And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main; 

But here the eftect fell short of their desire: 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

** If" (says the historian here) ** I could report 

All that the Russians did upon this day, 
I think that several volumes would fall short, 

And I should still have many things to say." 
And so he says no more — but pays his court 

To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray; 
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and 

Damas, 
Names gi'eat as any that the roll of Fame has. 

XXXIII. 
This being the case, may show us what fame is. 

For out of these three ^^ p7'eux chevalier s,^^ 
Many of common readers give a guess [how 

That such existed? (and they may live now 



688 



DON JUAN, 



1^23. 



For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or miss : 

There's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 

'Tis true, the memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's 

screen. \ 

XXXIV. 
But here are men who fought in gallant actions. 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought; 
But buried in the heap of such transactions, 

Their names are rarely found, nor often 

sought. [tions, 

Thus even good fame may suffer sad contrac- 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 
Oi all our modern battles, I will bet 
Vou can't repeat nine names from each Gazette. 



In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'd that sof?ie2vhere, somehow y there was 
a fault; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault, 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate. But I must halt ; 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the 
breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, [tion. 
Not that his manhood could be call'd in ques- 

For had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 

XXXVII. 
This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 

When homicide and harlotry made great; 
If stars and titles could entail long praise. 

His glory might half equal his estate. 
This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 

A kind of phantasy proportionate 
In the then sovereign of the Russian people. 
Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent; 

I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the meantime the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon, on the Danube's bor- 
der, 

Were briskly fired, and answer'd in due order. 



XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to 

A courier on the spur insjMred new heart [raise. 
Into all panters for newspaper praise. 

As well as dilettanti in war's art. 

By his despatches, couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Sou- 
varoif. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be par- 
tial — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; 

But as it was mere lust of power, to o'erarch 

all [plause. 

With his proud brow, it merits slight ap- 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

** You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 

XLI. 

'< Let there be light!" said God, ** and there 
I was light!" [a sea! 

** Let there be blood!" says man, and there's 
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night 

(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright [be 

Summers could renovate, though they should 
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit; 
For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 



Our friends the Turks, who with loud **A1- 

lahs" now 
j Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
jWere damnably mistaken; few are slow 
i In tliinking that their enemy is beat, 
I (Or beaten J if you insist on grammar, though 
I I never think about it in a heat). 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their 
bacon. 

XLIII. 

,For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd 
Cossacques, 
iFor some time, till they came in nearer view; 
They had but little baggage at their backs. 
For there were but three shirts between the 
two; 
But on they rode, upon two Ukraine hacks, 
Till, in approaching, were at length descried. 
In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 



1823. 



DON' yUAN. 



689 



XLIV. 

"Great joy to London now!" says some great 
fool, 

When London had a grand illumination, 
Which to that bottle-conjuror, John Bull, 

Is of all dreams the first hallucination : 
So that the streets of color'd lamps are full, 

The sage {said ]o\in) surrenders at discretion 
His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his 

nonsense. 
To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 

'Tis strange that he should further'* damn his 
eyes," [oath 

For they aredamn'd; that once all-famous 
Is to the devil now no further prize. 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise, 

And Famine, with her gaunt and bony 
growth, [ine, 

Which stares him in the face, he won't exam- 
Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

But to the tale, — great joy unto the camp, 
To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cos- 
sacque. 

O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp 
Presaging a most luminous attack; 

Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 
Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 

He flitted to and fro, a dancing light. 

Which all who saw it follow 'd, wrong or right. 

XLVII. 

But, certes, matters took a different face; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause: 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace. 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 
• They drew, constructed ladders, repair'dj 
flaws I 

In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 1 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. ! 

XLVIII. I 

'Tis thus the spirit of a single mind | 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, ' 
As roll the v/aters to the breathing wind. 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's pro- 
Or as a little dog will lead the blind, [tection; 

Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection 
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to 

victual: 
Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy: you would 
have thought 
That they were going to a marriage feast 



(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught. 

Since there is discord after both, at least): 
There was not now a luggage-l oy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardor much increased; 
And why? because a little — od I — old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity: the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station. 
And waited but the signal's voice to burst 

Upon ihe foe: the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory, gaping o'er a sea of slaughter; 

The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

LI. 

New batteries were erected, and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity. 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 
As sometimes happens in a great extremity: 

And every difficulty being dispell'd. 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity. 

While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.* 
LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to 
squander 
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil; 

Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill: 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's), or to cross a ditch. 

LIII. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 

Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 
And made them charge with bayonet these 

machines. 
By way of lesson against actual Turks. 
And when well practiced in these mimic scenes. 
He judged them proper to assail the works; 
At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases 

witty: 
He made no answer; but he took the city. 

LIV. 
Most things were in this posture on the eve 

Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
A stern repose, which you would scarce 
conceive; [thin, 

Yet men resolved to dash through thick and 
Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled; — there was little din, 

* Fact : Suwarrow did this in person. 



^90 



DOS' yUAI^. 



1823. 



For some were thinking of their home and 
friends, ' 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, [ering; 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pond- 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt. 

Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. [storm 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 

For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round 

a hill. 

Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 

'Twas much that he was understood at all; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or 

manner, [banner. 

They found that he had fought beneath their 

LVII. 

Whereon immediately, at his request. 

They brought him and his comrades to 
headquarters; [guess'd 

Their dress was Moslem, but you might have 
That these were merely masquerading 
Tartars, 

And that beneath each Turkish -fashioned vest 
Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters 

Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 

It difficult to sb.un some strange mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt. 

Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 
Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 

And lecturing on the noble art of killing — 
For, deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 
His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 
Proved death in battle equal to a pension; — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacques and their prey, turned round, 
and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye: — 
"Whence come ye?" — "From Constanti 
nople last, 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
"What are ye?" — "What you see us." 
Briefly pass'd 
This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but 
few. 



" Your names?" — " Mine's Johnson, and my 
comrade's Juan; 
The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw 
on [heard 

The party a slight glance, and said, " I have 
Your name before, the second is a new one: 
To bring the other three here was absurd: 
But let that pass: — I think I've heard your 

name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment?" — " The same.'* 

LXI. 

"You served at Widdin?"— " Yes."— " You 
led the attack?" [know." — 

" I did." — " What next?" — " I really hardly 
" You were the first i' the breach?" — " I was 
not slack 
At least to follow those who might be so." 
"What foUow'd?" — "A shot laid me on my 
back. 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
"You shall have vengeance! for the town 
surrounded [wounded. 

Is twice as strong as that where you were 

LXII. 

" Where will you serve?" — " W^here'er you 
please." — " I know 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn, 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe, 

After the hardships you've already borne; 
And this young fellow — say, what can he do? 
He with the beardless chin and garments 
torn?" 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the as- 
sault." 

LXIII. 

" He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low, as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
Continued: " Your old regiment's allow'd, 

By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have 
vow'd [row 

To several saints, that shortly plough or liar- 
Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

" So now, my lads, for glory!" — Hereheturn'd 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 
Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
[For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
I A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 
AH earthly goods save tithes), and bade them 
I push on 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



691 



To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 
The armies of the Christian Empress Catharine, 

LXV, 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favorite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged, with accents high, 
In his resumed amusement. ** I confess 

My debt in being thus allowed to die 

Among the foremost; but if you'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my frienH 

And self would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. 

** Righjt: I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which 
should be 

Now under arms. No ! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me: 

He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 



But here a sort of scene began to ensue: 
The ladies — who by no means had been 

To be disposed of in a way so new, [bred 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
Passive obedience — now raised up the head, 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their 
young, 

LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honor'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain. 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

O foolish mortals! always taught in vain! 
O glprious laurel! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 

Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea. 



Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling; for, however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when 
their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow [row, 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwar- 

LXX. 

He said, and in the kindest Calmuck tone— 
*« Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 



By bringing women here? They shall be 
All the attention possible, and. seen [shown 

In safety to the waggons, where alone [been 
In fact they can be safe. You should have 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

May it please your excellency," thus replied 

Our British friend, ** these are the wives of 
And not our own. I am too qualified [others. 

By service with my military brothers. 
To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 

Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers 
The hearts of the heroic, on a charge. 
As leaving a small family at large. 
LXXII. 

But these are but two Turkish ladies, who, 

With their attendant, aided our escape. 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils, in this dubious shape. 
To me this kind of life is not so new; 

To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape : 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 
Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime these two poor girls, with swim- 
ming eyes, 

Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
Their own protectors; nor was their surprise 

Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
To see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
More fearM than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For everything seem'd resting on his nod, 
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god. 
To see the Sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem) 

With all the pomp of power, ii was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 

LXXV. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental. 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way. 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 
Or that the Russian army should repent all: 

And, strange to say, they found some consola- 

In this — for females like exaggeration, [tion 

LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some 
slight kisses. 
They parted for the present— -these to await| 



692 



DON yUAX, 



1823. 



According to the artillery's hits or misses, 
What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate 

(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate), \ 

While their beloved friends began to arm. 

To burn a town which never did them harm, j 

LXXVII. I 

Suwarrow — who but saw things in the gross, | 

Being much too gross to see them in detail;-, 
W'ho calculated life as so much dross, 

And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, j 
And cared as little for his army's loss | 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 
As wife and friends did for the boils of Job- 
What was't to him to hear two women sob? 



Nothing. — The work of glory still went on 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

W^e only can but talk of escalade. 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bay- 
onets, bullets; [gullets. 
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' 

LXXIX. 

O thou eternal Plomer! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long; all ages, though so 

By merely wielding, with poetic arm, [short. 
Arms to which men will never more resort, 

I'nless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court. 

Which now is leagued young freedom to 
annoy; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy; — 

LXXX. 

O thou eternal Homer! I have now [slain. 
To paint a siege wherein more men were 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow. 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood — 

But still we moderns equal you in blood; 

LXXX I. 
If not in ]joetry, at least in fact; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! 
Of which ,howe'er the Muse describes each act. 
There should be ne'ertheless a slight sub- 
stratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd; 
Cireat deeds are doing — how shall I relate 
'em? 



Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches 
To color up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXX II. 
O ye great bulletins of Buonaparte! 

ye less grand long lists of kill'd and 
wounded! 

Shade of Leonidas! who fought so hearty, 
When my poor Greece was once, as now, 
surrounded! 

Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye 
Shadows of glor)*! (lest I be confounded), 

A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

W^hen I call ** fading " martial immortality, 

1 mean that every age and every year. 
And almost every day, in sad reality. 

Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 
W^ho, when we come to sum up the totality 

Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scar- 

Are things immortal to immortal man. 
As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 

An uniform to boys is like a fan 
To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet 

But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 
But Glory's glory; and if you would find 
What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind I 

LXXXV. 

At least he feels it, and some say he sees^ 
Because he runs before it like a pig; 

Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
Say that he scuds before it, like a brig, 

A schooner, or — but it is time to cease 

1 This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue: 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people. 
Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXXV I. 

Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull 
night. 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! 
Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 

Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 

The stars peep through the vapors dim and 

dank. 

Which curl in curious wreaths: — how soon 

the smoke 
Of bell shall pall them in a deeper cloak! 



1823. 



DON JUAN, 



693 



LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 
Thousands of whom were drawing their last 
breath ! 



A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march! the charge! the shouts of either 
faith ! 
Hurrah! and Allah! and — one moment more — 
The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO THE EIGHTH. 



1823. 



Oh, blood and thunder! and oh, blood and 
wounds! [deem, 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may 
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds. 

And so they are: yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her 
theme. 
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 
All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array: 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerves and sinews bent 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen [to slay, — 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off in 
Immediately in others grew again. [vain, 

III. 
History can only take things in the gross; 

But could we know them in detail, per- 
In balancing the profit and the loss, [chance 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to ad- 
The drying up a single tear has more [vance. 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why? — because it brings self-approba- 
W^hereas the other, after all its glare, [tion; 

Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation. 
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 

A higher title, or a loftier station, [stare, 

Though they may make Corruption gape or 

Yet in the end, except in Freedom's battles. 

Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

V. 

And such they are — and such they will be 
Not so Leonidas and Washington, [found; 



Whose every battle-field is holy ground, 
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds 
undone. 

How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 
While the mere victor's may appal or stun 

The servile and the vain, such names will be 

A watchword till the future shall be free. 



The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame. 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud. 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same — 

A mirror'd hell! The volleying roar, and loud, 
Long booming of each peal on peal o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's 
flashes [ashes ! 

Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions 

VII. 

The column order'd on the assault scarce 
pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises. 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last. 
Answering the Christian thunders with like 
voices: . [braced, 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream em- 
Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty 
noises; [when 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of ** Allah " rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore 

Resounded ** Allah!" and the clouds which 
close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 

Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark! through 

All sounds it pierceth, **Allah! Allah! Hu!"* 



* Allah Hu ! is properly the war-cry of the Mussul- 
mans : and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 



694 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



IX. 



XIV. 



The columns were in movement one and all, 

But of the portion which attack'd by water, 
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of 
slaughter, 
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 

*' Carnage " (so Wordsworth tells you) ** is 
God's daughter:"* 
If he speaks truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap : in fact, the ball could 
No harm unto a right legitimate head: [mean 
" Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead? 

XI. 
Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near — 

Air common fellows, who might writhe and ^/^^^ ^^^^ , • , r 1, 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear- [wince, Of o^"'"'* ^.'^ird fell on the spot, 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 

And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills. 
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 

Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills: 
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet 

' tick. 

Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 
Past, present, and to come; — but all may yield 
To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 

Until their very number makes men hard 
By the infinities of agony, [gs-rd — 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may re- 
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 

Turn'd back within its socket — these reward 
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 
May win perhaps a riband at the breast. 



Yet I love glory: — glory's a great thing: 
Think what it is to be, in your old age, 

Maintain'd at the expense of your good king; 
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage. 

And heroes are but made for bards to sing. 
Which is still better: thus inverse to wage 

Your wars eternally, besides enjoying [ing. 

Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroy- 

XV. 

The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 
To take a battery on the right; the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done. 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of 
mothers. 

O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot. 

And shells, or hells, it could not more have 

[goaded. 
A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault: [fault. 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at 



But here I leave the general concern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame: 

He must his laurels separately earn; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 

And, what is worse still, a much longer story: 

XVIII. 



♦ To wit, the Deity's ; this is perhaps as pretty a pedi- 
gree for murder as ever was found out by Garter King 
Jit Arms. What would have been said had any free- 
spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 

" But Thy most dreadful instrument, 
In workinv; out ?■ pure intent, 
Is man nrray'd for mutual slaughter : 
Yea, Carnage is Thy daughter P^ 

Wordsworth's Thanksgiving Ode. 



And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the Gazette, which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encum- 
ber;— [spelt 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well 

In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was 
Grose.* 



* A fact: sec the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect re- 
marking at the time to a friend, " There is fame! a 
! man is killed: his name is Grose, and they print it Grove." 
, I was at college with the deceased, who was a very ami- 
jable and clever man, and his society m great request for 
'his wit, gaiety, and chansons d bairf. 



1823. 



DON yUAiV. 



695 



XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 
And fought away with might and main, not 
knowing 
The way which they had never trod before. 
And still less guessing where they might be 
going; [o'er, 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling 
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, 
glowing, 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
To their two selves one whole bright bulletin, 

XX. 
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands — sometimes 
gaining [nigher 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them 
To some odd angle for which all were strain- 
At other times, repulsed by the close fire, [ing 
Which really pour'd as if all hell were rain 
ing [o'er 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards 
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and 
though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch, [throw 
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as 
starch, [day;— 

Which stiffen'd heaven), as if he wish'd for 
Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had? 

There have been and ai-e heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederick the Great from Molwitz deign'd to 
run 
For the first and last time; for, like a pad. 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks. 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 
XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic ; — 

(The antiquarians who can settle time, 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or 
Runic, [clime* 

Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same 
With Plannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational 

As any other notion, and not national) ; — 



♦ See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Parsons, 



But Juan was quite **a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse, and a child of song; 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 

Or \\iQ sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), 

And afterwards, if he must needs destroy. 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure. 

No less delighted to employ his leisure. 



But always without malice: if he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what wx call ** the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's /rww/ 
cardy 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer, — ward 
Off each attack, when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they ineant well: 

'Tis pity **that such meanings should pave 
hell."* 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt [paved — 
Whether hell's pavement — if it be so 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions which once 
shaved [hell. 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 



Juan, by some strange chance which oft di- 
vides 

Warrior from warrior in their grim career. 
Like chastest wives from constant husbands' 
sides. 

Just at the close of the first bridal year, 
By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, 

W^as on a sudden rather puzzled here. 
When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 
He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were killed or 
wounded. 

And that the rest had faced unto the right 
About; a circumstance which has confounded 

Csesar himself, who, in the veiy sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield. 

And rally back his Romans to the field. 



*The Portuguese proverb says that 
^vith good intentions." 



' hell \s paved 



696 



DON yUAX. 



1823 



XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Ccesar, but a fine young lad, who fought, 

lie knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer time: then, like an ass, 
(Start not, kind readers: since great Homer 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan [thought 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one), — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way. 
And what was stranger, never look'd behind; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray. 
He stumbled on to see if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps which 

had [can't 

Quite disappear'd — the gods know how! (I 
Account for everything which may look bad 

In history; but we at least may grant 
It is not marvellous that a mere lad. 

In search for glory, should look on before. 

Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps;) — 

XXXII. 
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded. 

And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
His way to — where he knew not — single- 
handed; 

As travellers follow over bog and brake 
An ignis faiuus; or as sailors stranded 

Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; 
So Juan, following honor and his nose, [foes. 
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most 

XXXIII. 
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared. 

For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 

The hour, as is the case with lively brains; 

And where the hottest fire was seen and 

heard, [strains, 

And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly 

shaken, 
P^y thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!* 

XXXIV. 
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was the late second column, 

* Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
friar. 



Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces. 

And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. 

j XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 

Who had "retreated," as the phrase is,when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den. 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how **to cut and come 
again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 

More virgin valor never dreamt of flying, 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like Innocence relying [thews — 
On its own strength, with careless nerves and 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally [valley." 

Those who catch cold in '* shadows of Death's 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little sheltered from the shot. 
Which rain'd from bastion^ battery, parapet, 

Rampart, wall, casemate, house — for there was 
In this extensive city, sore beset [not 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil. as yet — 

He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on; and, what's strange, 
they came 

Unto his call, unlike ** the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim. 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their 
home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
And that odd impulse which, in wars or creeds. 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove, he was a noble fellow, Johnson; 

And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun 

soon [his 

We shall not see his likeness: he could kill 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Her steady breath (which some months the 

same siill is). 



IS23. 



DON JUAN. 



697 



Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
And could be very busy without bustle. 

XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be rid so 
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind; 

But when they light upon immediate death, 

Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 

But Johnson only ran off, to return 
With many other warriors, as we said, 

Unto that rather somewhat misty bourne. 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 

To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living, as on wire. 

And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 
Egad! they found, the second time, what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 
To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff ^ 
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay. 
That daily shilling which makes warriors 
tough) — [come. 

They found, on their return, the self-same wel- 
Which made some think, and others knowy a 
hell come. 



They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the 
sickle; 

Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail. 
Or a good boxer; into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils. 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole 

ranks: [levels 

However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who 

Towns, nations,worlds,in her revolving pranks. 
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, 

That Johnson and some few who had not 
scamper'd 

Reach'd the interior talus * of the rampart. 



" The slope or inclination of a wall in fortification. 



XLV. 
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
All neck or nothing, as, like pitck or rosin. 
Flame was shower'd forth above as well's 
below. 
So that you scarce could say who best had 
chosen. 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 
Their martial faces on the parapet, 
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 

But those who scaled, found out that their 
advance 

Was favor'd by an accident or blunder; 
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 

Had palisado'd in a way you'd wonder 
To see in forts of Netherlands or France 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock 
under) : 
Right in the middle of the parapet 
Just named, these palisades were primly set; 

XLVII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march; a great convenience to our men. 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line, and fight again. 
And that which further aided them to strive 

Was that they could kick down the palisades. 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass 
blades. 

XLVIII. 

Among the first — I will not say ih^firsty 
For such precedence, upon such occasions, 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations. 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that W^ellington, at Waterloo, 

Was beaten — though the Prussians say so too — 

XLIX. 
And that if Blucher,Bulow,Gneisenau, [*<ow," 

And God knows who besides in "au" and 
Had not come up in time to cast an awe 

Into the hearts of those who fought till now. 
As tigers combat with an empty craw. 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
His orders, also to receive his pensions. 
Which are the heaviest that our history men- 
tions. 

L. 

But never mind — ** God save the king! " and 
kings! 
For if ^<f don't, I doubt if w<?« will longer— 



698 



DON JUAN, 



182:; 



I think I hear a little bird, who sings 

The people by and by will be the stronger: 
The veriest jade will wince whose harness 
wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
Beyond the rules of posting — and the mob 
At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 
At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then. 
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a 
At last it takes to weapons such as men [giant; 
Snatch when despair makes human hearts 
less pliant. 
Then comes *' the tug of war;" — 'twill come 
again, [on't," 

I rather doubt; and I would fain say '* Fie 
If I had not perceived that revolution 
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue: — I say not the first, 

But fT/the first, our little friend, Don Juan, 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
Amid such scenes — though this was quite a 
new one 

To him, and I should hopetow^j/. The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and 
through one. 

Pervaded him, — although a generous creature. 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast. 
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confest, 
To him it was Elysium to be there, 

And he could even withstand that awkward 

test, [fair, 

\Vhich Rousseau points out to the dubious 

** Observe your lover when he leaves your 
arms;" [charms. 

But Juan never left them, while they had 

LIV. 

Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind. 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here he was! — where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame; 

And he whose very body was all mind [tame 
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which 

The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 



So was his blood stirr'd while he found resist- 
As Is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, [ance. 

Or douiMC })()St and rail, where the existence 
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 



The lightest being the safest; at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
Blood until heated — and even then his own 
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard prest, 
Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 

As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 
Who came as if just dropp'd down from the 
moon. 

To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 

Not reckoning him to be a ** base Bezonian" 

! (As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanskrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 

The General who held him in command; 

For seeing one with ribands, black and blue, 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand. 

Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 

He recognized an officer of rank. 



Short speeches pass between two men who 
speak 

No common language; and besides, in time 
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 

Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
In like church bells, with sigh, howl, groan, 

yell, prayer, 
There cannot be much conversation there. 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 

Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute; 

But in the same small minute eveiy sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it: 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, [net, 
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a lin- 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. O Eternity! — 

** God made the country, and man made the 

vSo Cowper says — and I begin to be [town," 
Of his opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
All walls men know, and many never known; 

And, pondering on the present and the past. 

To deem the woods shall be our home at 
last:—. 



i823. 



DON JUAN, 



699 



LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the manslayer, 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky; 
Of the great names which in our faces stare, 
The General Boone, backwoodsman of Ken- 
tucky, 
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere: 

For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
Of his Old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 
Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him — 
Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, [for 
Where if men seek her not, and death be 
more [guiled 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as be- 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor- 
In cities caged. The present case in point I 
Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety; 

LXIII. 
And, what's still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng. 
Not only famous, but of that good fame 

Without which glory's but a tavern song — 
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with 
wrong: 
An active hermit, even in age the child 
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his 
nation: 

When they built up unto his darling trees, — 
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 

Where there were fewer houses and more 
The inconvenience of tivilization [ease. 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 
But where he met the individual man, 
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone; around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new : 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on nature's or on human face; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free. 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain : the green woods were their 
portion^, 



No sinking spirits told them they grew grey; 

No fashion made them apes of her distortions : 

Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; 

Corruption could not make their hearts her 

soil; ' [encumbers, 

The lust which stings, the splendor which 
With the free foresters divide no spoil: 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 

So much for nature : — by way of variety, 
Now back to thy great joys. Civilization! 

And the sweet consequence of large society. 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration. 

The scenes like Catharine's boudoir at three- 
score, 

With Ismail's storm, to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 
The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another; 
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and 
mother [upbraid : — 

With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 
The breath of morn and man, where, foot by 

foot. 
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 
(With some assistance from the frost and 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, [snow) 
It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 

His jest alike in face of friend or foe, [stake. 

Though life, and death, and victory were at 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take; 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers. 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears; 

But there his project reached its utmost pitch 
('Mongst other deaths, the General Ribau- 
pierre's 

Was much regretted), for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again, 



7oo 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



LXXII. 

And had it not been for some stray troops 

landing, 

They knew not where — being carried by 

the stream [standing, 

To some spot where they lost their under- 

And wander'd up and down as in a dream, 

Until they reach'd,as daybreak was expanding, 

That which a portal to their eyes did seem — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And, scrambling round the rampart, these 
same troops, 
After the taking of the ** cavalier," 
Just as Koutousow's most **forlorn" of **hopes" 
Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of 
fear, 
Open'd the gate called ** Kilia " to the groups 

Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud. 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 
The Kozacks,or,if so youplease,Cossacques — 
(I don't much pique myself upon orthog- 
raphy. 
So that I do not grossly err in facts. 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 

And no great dilettanti in topography 
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
Their chiefs to order, were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 
Their column, though the Turkish batteries 
thunder'd [part. 

Upon them,ne'ertheless had reach'd the ram- 
And naturally thought they could have plun- 
der'd 
The city, without being further hamper'd. 
But, as it happens to brave men, they blun- 
der'd — [per'd. 

The Turks at first pretended to have scam- 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion-corners. 
From whence they sallied on those Christian 
scorners. 

LXXVI. 

Then being taken by the tail — a taking 
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 

Cossacques were all cut off, as day was break- 
ing, [lease; 
And found their lives were let at a short 

But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 
Leaving as ladders iheir heap'd carcases. 

O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 

March'd with the brave battalion of Polouz- 
kiJ— 



LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being, in his turn, 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
Which of the armies would have cause to 
mourn ; 

*Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch. 

For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another column also suffer'd much; 

And here we may remark with the historian, 
You should but give few cartridges to such 
Troops as are meant to march with greatest 
glory on. 
When matters must be carried by the touch 
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should 
hurry on. 
They sometimes, with a hankering for exist- 
ence. 
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 
LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 
(Without the general, who had fallen some 

Before, being badly secondedjust then) [time 
Was made at length with those who dared 
to climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again; 
And though the Turks' resistance was sub> 
lime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 

Among the foremost offer'd him good quar- 
A word which little suits with Seraskiers, [ter, 

Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 
He died, deserving well his country's tears, 

A savage sort of military martyr. 
An English naval ofBcer, who wish'd 
To take him prisoner, was also dish'd: 

LXXX I. 
For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead: 
On which the rest, without more intermission. 

Began to lay about with steel and lead — 
The pious metals most in requisition 

On such occasions; not a single head 
Was spared; — three thousand Moslems per- 
ish'd here. 
And sixteen bayonets pierced the wSeraskier. 

LXXXII. 
The city's taken — only part by part — [street 
And De^th is drunk with gore; there's not a 



1S23. 



DOiV yUAh\ 



70 1 



Where fights not to the last some desperate 
heart, 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying Nature; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's head 
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to 
feel: [and bled. 

In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed. 
And howl'd for help as wolves do for a 
meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute [wit 
(That which some ancient Muse or modern 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite 
through't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed, 

P'or the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer. 
And left him midst the invalid andmaim'd: 

The regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe. 

Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the part 
Of a true poet to escape from fiction. 

Whene'er he can; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restric- 
tion 

Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 
For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 

And that outrageous appetite for lies 

Which Satan angles with, for souls, like flies. 

LXXXVI I. 

The city's taken, but not render'd! — No! 

There's not a Moslem that hath yielded 
sword : 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe : 



In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 
LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans: and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; 

But still it falls in vast and awful splinters. 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand 
winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 
My cue, for any time, to be terrific; 

For, checker'd as is seen our human lot, 
With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 

Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific: 

Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 

I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XG. 
And one good action in the midst of crimes 

Is ** quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 
Of these ambrosial, pharisaic times. 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways. 
And may serve therefore to bedew thes^ 
rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
Of conquest and its consequences, which 
Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay [group 

Thousands of siaughter'd men, a yet warm 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 

To this vain refuge,made the good heart droop 

And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 

A female child of ten years tried to stoop, 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 

XCII. 

Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child 
With flashing eyes and weapons; match'd 
with them. 
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 

Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem — 
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild; 

And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ 
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? 

XCIII. 
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head. 
Whence her fair hair rose twining with 
affright; 



7o2 



DON yUAN. 



1S23 



Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead, 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight: 

I shall not say exactly what he saidy 

Because it might not solace " ears polite;" 

But what he didy was to lay on their backs, 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. 

xciv. 
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's 
shoulder, [seek 

And drove them, with their brutal yells, to 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain; while, waxing 
colder, 
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 
And she was chill as they, and on her face 

A slender streak of blood announced how 
Her fate had been to that of all her race; [near 

For the same blow which laid her mother here 
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace. 

As the last link with all she had held dear: 
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mis- 
chance 
Unto his prot^g^'e; while hers, transfix'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase; — 

xcvii. 

Up came John Johnson (I will notsay**yar>&," 

For that were vulgar, cold, and common- 
On great occasions, such as an attack [place. 

On cities, as hath been the present case) : 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back. 

Exclaiming — ** Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 
Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar, 
That you and I will win St. George's collar.* 

XCVIII. 
** The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 

But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 
The old Pacha sits, among some hundreds dead. 

Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 
Of our artillery and his own: 'tis said 

Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 



* The Russian military order. 



Lie round the battery; but still it batters, 
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 
XCIX. 

** Then up with me!" But Juan answer'd, — . 

" Look 

Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 

Her life to chance; but point me out some 

nook [grieve, 

Of safety, where she less may shrink and 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 

A glance around — and shrugg'd, and twitch'd 

his sleeve [" You're right: 

And black silk neckcloth — and replied. 

Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled 

quite." 

c. 
Said Juan, — ** Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure 
Of present life a good deal more than we." 
Quoth Johnson, ** Neither will I quite en- 
sure; 
But at the least ^6*// may die gloriously." — 
I Juan replied, — ** At least I will endure 
: Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
This child, who is parentless, and therefore 
mine." 

CI. 
Johnson said, — '* Juan, we've no time to lose; 
The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark! now choose 
Between your fame and feelings, pride and 
pity- 
Hark! how the roar increases! — no excuse 
Will serve when there is plunder in a city; 
I should be loth to march without you; but, 
By God, we'll be too late for the first cut." 

Cll. 
But Juan was immoveable, until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
; Pick'd out amongst his followers, with some 
I skill, [prey; 

I Such as he thought the least given up to 
I And swearing, if the infant came to ill, 
! That they should all be shot on the next day; 
I But if she were deliver'd, safe and sound. 
They should at least have fifty roubles round, 
I cm. 

lAnd all allowances, besides, of plunder, 
I In fair proportion with their comrades; — 

then 
Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of 
men; 
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
For they were heated by the hope of gain; 



1823. 



DOM yUAN, 



703 



A thing which happens everywhere each day — 
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory, and such is man! [God 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so: — 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or His ways are odd. 
But to our subject. A brave Tartar khan — 

Or ** sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all. 

cv. 
But flank'd h^ five brave sons (such is polyg- 
amy, [none 

That she spawns warriors by the score, where 
Are prosecuted for that false crime, bigamy). 

He never would believe the city won, [Am I 
While courage clung but to a single twig. — 

Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? 
Neither— but a good, plain, old, temperate 

man, 
Who fought with his five children in the van. 

cvi. 
To take him was the point. The truly brave. 

When they behold the brave oppress'd with 
odds, 
Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save; — 

A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave. 

Now moved with pity: even as sometimes 
The rugged tree unto the summer wind, [nods 
Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVII. 

But he would not be taken y and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender, 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied; 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less ten- 
der. 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
A.pt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 

Expended all their Eastern phraseology 
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 

So much less fight as might form an apology 
For them in saving such a desperate foe — 

He hew'd away, like doctors of theology. 
When they dispute with skeptics; and, with 

curses. 
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 

Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, 



The first with sighs, the second with an oath, 

Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 
And all around were grown exceeding wroth 

At such a pertinacious infidel. 
And pour'd upon him and his sons, like rain, 
Which they resisted like a sandy plain 

ex. 
That drinks, and still is dry. At last they 
perish'd — 
His second son was levell'd by a shot; 
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most 
cherish'd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot: 
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourished, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not. 
Because deform'd, yet died all game and 

bottom, 
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 
The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green. 
Who make the beds of those who won't take 
quarter 

On earth in Paradise; and when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young 
khan 

In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess; 
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 

To tough old heroes, and can do no less. 
And that's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 

A field of battle's ghastly wilderness. 
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body. 
You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs 
bloody. 

CXIII. 

Your houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately-married men. 
Before the bridal hours have danced their 
measure, 

And the sad, second moon grows dim again, 
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 

To wish him back a bachelor now and then : 
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 
Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight, 

Thought not upon the charms of four young 
brides. 
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 

In short, howc'er our better faith derides, 



704 



DON JUAN 



1823. 



These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems' CXX. 

fight, [besides — But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 



I 



As though there were one heaven, and none 
Whereas, if all be true \ve hear of heaven 
And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 

That, when the very lance was in his heart, 
He shouted '* Allah! " and saw l^aradise. 

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart: — 
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, described 
In one voluptuous blaze — and then he died. 

cxv I. 
But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, [see 

The goad old khan, who long had ceased to 
Houris, or aught except his tiorid race, 

W^ho grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
W^hen he beheld his latest hero grace [tree. 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd 
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 
A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 

CXVII. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 

Stopp'd, as if once more to concede 
Quarter, in case he bid them not **aroynt!" 
As he before had done. He did not heed 
Their pause or signs: his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 
As he look'd down upon his children gone, 
And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 

CXVIII. 
But 'twas a transient tremor: — with a spring 

Upon the Russian steel, his breast he flung, 
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
Against the light wherein she dies: he 
clung 
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring. 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his 
young: 
And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
In one wide wound poured forth his soul at 
once. 

CXIX. 
'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, 
who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced 
through. 
And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 

Were melted for a moment: though no tear 
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with 

strife. 
They honor'd such determined scorn of life. 



Where the chief pacha calmly held his post : 
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 

And baffled the assaults of all their host. 
At length he condescended to inquire 

If yet the city's rest were won or lost; 
And, being told the latter, sent a bey 
To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXX I. 
In the meantime, cross-legg'd, with great 
sang-froidy 

Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
Tobacco on a little carpet; — Troy [looking 

Saw nothing like the scene around; — yet 
With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 

His stern philosophy; but gently stroking 
His beard, he puff d his pipe's ambrosial gaks, 
As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXX II. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 

Himself or bastion, little matter'd now; 
His stubborn valor was no further shield. 

Ismail's no more! the crescent's silver bow- 
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the 
field. 
But red with no redeeviing gore: the glow 
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaugh- 
ter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from, of ex- 
cesses; 
All that the body perpetrates, of bad ; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's dis- 
tresses; 
All that the devil would do if run stark mad; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses,- 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power 

abuse — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 

cxxiv. 
If here and there some transient trait of pity 
Was shown, and some more noble heart 
broke through [pretty 

Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some 

Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 
What's this, in one annihilated city, [grew? 
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties, 
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! 
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 
I Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
Aro purchased by all agonies and crimes: 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



705 



Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be your own in after-times. 

Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present 
story, 

Then feed her famine fat withWellesley's glory. 

cxxvi. 
But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

"Which loves so well its country and its king, 
A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! 
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvest 

cling. 

Gaunt Famine never shall approach the 

throne — [twenty stone. 

Though Ireland starve, great George weighs 

cxxvii. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town! 
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's 
stream. 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders 
grown : 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent 
all! 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing, ne'ertheless, *tis fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration. 

The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long 
station 

In winter's, depth, or want of rest and victual. 

Had made them chaste — they ravish 'd very 
little. 



Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line; but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation. 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess 
Except cold weather and commiseration; 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark. 

Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of 

taste — t 



Indeed, the smoke was such they scarce could 
mark [from haste 

Their friends from foes, — besides, such things 
Occur, though rarely when there is a spark 

Of light to save the venerably chaste: 
But six old damsels, each of seventy years. 
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 
But, on the whole, their continence was great; 
I So that some disappointment there ensued 
I To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
j Of *<single blessedness," and thought it good 
I (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 
I To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
jTo make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and the suspense of bed- 
I ding. 

I CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 

Were also heard to \vonder, in the din 
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged), 
** Wherefore the ravishing did not begin! " 
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
There was small leisure for superfluous sin; 
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXXIII. 
Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, 
like thatch [allay'd. 

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce 
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ; 

And here exactly follows what he said : 
'* Glory to 6^c?fl^and to the Empress!" {^Powers 
Eternal! such names mingled!) *< Ismail's 
ours." 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words 

Since " Mene, Mene, Tekel," and ** Uphar- 

sin," [swords. 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of 

Heaven help me! I'm but little of a pars®n : 

What Daniel read was shorthand of the Lord's, 

Severe, sublime! the prophet wrote no farce 

The fate of nations; but this Russ, so witty, [on 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.* 

CXXXV. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it. 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it; 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 



* In the original Russian he wrote — 

Slava bogu ! slava vam 
Krepost vyala y ia tam. 
45 



7o6 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones; — 
I3utye — our children's children! think how we 
Show'd what things were before the world was 
free ! 

cxxxvi. 

That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you: 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 

You hardly will believe such things were true 
As now occur, I thought that I would pen 
you 'em; 

But may their very memory perish too! — 
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain 
you 'em 

More than you scorn the savages of yore, 

Who/tfz«/^^ their <^d:r(?limbs,but«^/ with gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 
And those that sate upon them, let it be 

As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones, 
And wonder what old world such things could 

Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, [see, 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 

Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 

Reader! I've kept my word — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic^ if plain truth should prove no bar; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 



Than my forerunners. Carelessly I iing, 
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

cxxxix. 

\Vilh which I can still harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen, or may befall, 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all: 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 

Worn out w^th battering Ismail's stubborn 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, [wall, 
For which all Petersburg is on the watch. 

CXL. 
This special honor was conferr'd, because 
He had behaved with courage and human- 
ity — [pause 
Which last men like when they have time to 

From their ferocities, produced by vanity. 
His little captive gain'd him some applause, 

For saving her amidst the wild insanity 
Of carnage, — and I think he was more glad 

in her 
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector. 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all 
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 

Had perish'd on the field or by the wall; 
Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 
To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO THE NINTH. 



1823. 



I. 



Oh, W^ellington! (or ** Villainton " — for Fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways: 

France could not even conquer your great 
name. 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Ideating or beaten, she will laugh the same), 
Vou have obtain'd great pensions and much 
praise: 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 

Humanity would rise, and thunder '' Nay!"* 

II. 
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite 
well 
In Marindt's affair — in fact, 'twas shabby; 
And, like some other things, won't do to tell 



• Query, Ney f — PrinUr's Devil, 



Upon your tomb in Westminster's old Ab- 
bey. 
Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell. 
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some 
tabby; [zero, 

But though your years as man tend fast to 
In fact your Grace is still but 71 young hero. 

III. 
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so 
much, [more: 

Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly 
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, 

A prop not quite so certain as before; 
The Spanish and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you re- 
store; [or 
And Waterloo has made the world your debt- 
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 



1823. 



DON yUAN, 



707 



IV. 

You are "the best of cut-throats :" — do not 
start: [applied: 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not mis- 
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part, 

The world, not the world's masters, will de- 
cide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? 

V. 
I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flat- 
tery; [der. 
They say you like it too — 'tis no great won- 
He whose whole life has been assault and bat- 
tery, 
At last may get a little tired of thunder; 
And, swallowing eulogy much more than sat- 
ire, he [blunder; 
May like being praised for every lucky 
Called ** Savior of the Nations" not yet saved, 
And ** Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved.* 

VI. 

I've done. Now go, and dine from off the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils; 

And send the sentinel before your gate 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals: 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
Some hunger, too, they say the people 
feels : — 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ra- 

But pray give back a little to the nation, [tion, 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 

You, my Lord Duke, is far above reflection : 
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With modern history has but small connec- 
tion: 
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
You need not take them under your direc- 
tion; 
And half a million for your Sabine farm 
Is rather dear: — I'm sure I mean no harm. 
VIII. 

Great men have always scorn'd great recom- 
penses: 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses: 

(ieorge Washington had thanks, and 

nought beside, [men's is) 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few 

To free his country: Pitt, too, had his pride, 



'And, as a high soul'd minister of state, is 
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 



♦Vide Speeches in Parliament after the battle of Wa- 
terloo 



IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity. 
Except Napoleon, or abused it more: [unity 

You might have freed fallen Europe from the 

Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to 

shore: [tune it ye? 

And now, what is your fame? Shall the Muse 
Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are 
o'er? 

Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries! 

Behold the world! and curse your victories! 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats. 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to in- 
scribe 
Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
But which 'tis time to teach the hireling 
tribe 
Who fatten on their country's gore and debts. 

Must be recited — and without a bribe. 
You did great things; but not being great in 

mind. 
Have lehundone the greatest — and mankind. 

XI. 
Death laughs — Go, ponder o'er the skeleton 
With which men image out the- unknown 
thing 
That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter 
spring- 
Death laughs at all you weep for : — look upon 
This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'' d 
sting 
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: 
Mark how its lipless mouth grins without 
breath! 

XII. 

Mark! how it laughs and scorns at ail you are! 

And yet was what you are: from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshly bar 

So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear. 
But still he smiles; and whether near or far. 

He strips from man that mantle (far more 
dear 
Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will 
grin. 

XIII. 

And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
But still it is so: and with such example. 

Why should not Life be equally content 
With his superior in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 



7o8 



DON JUAN, 



1S23. 



Than the eternal deluge which devours 
Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like 
hours? 

XIV. 

*' To be, or not to be? that is the question," 
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in 
fashion. 

I'm neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, 
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion. 
Than Buonaparte's cancer: — could I dash 

Through fifty victories to fame or shame, [on 

Without a stomach — what were a good name? 

XV. 

•* Oh! dura ilia messorum! "* — ** Oh! 

Ye rigid guts of reapers! " I translate 
For the great benefit of those who know 

What indigestion is — that inward fate [flow. 
Which makes all Styx through one small liver 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: 
Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, 
lie who sleeps best may be the most content. 



** To be, or not to be? " Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which is being? 

'Tis true we speculate both far and wide, 
And deem, because we see^ we are all seeing : 

For my part, I'll enlist on neither side. 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 



** Que s^ais-je? " was the motto of Montaigne, 
As also of the first academicians: 

That all is dubious which man may attain. 
Was one of their most favorite positions. 

There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 
As any of Mortality's conditions; 

So little do we know what we're about in 

This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 

It is a pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float, 
Like Pyrrho,-j- on a sea of speculation: 

But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 
Your wise men don't know much of naviga- 
tion; 

And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 

Well-nigh the shore, where one stoops down 
and gathers 

Seme pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers 



XIX. 



* Horace. 

t (The philosopher of ElLs, who doubted everything. 



** But heaven," as Cassio says, ** is above all — 
Nomoreof this, then — let us pray."* We 
have [fall, 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, 
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. ** The spar- 
row's fall 
Is special providence," f though how it gave 
Offense, we know not; probably it perch'd 
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 
XX. 

O ye immortal gods! what is theogony? 
O thou, too, mortal man! what is philan- 
thropy? 

world, which was and is ! what is cosmogony ? 
Some people have accused me of misan- 
thropy ; 

And yet I know no more than the mahogany 
That forms this desk, of what they mean: 
lykanthropy 

1 comprehend; for, without transformation, 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind. 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done anything exceedingly unkind, [forbear 
And (though I could not now and then 

Following the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare — 

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 

They hate mey not I them : — and here we'll 
pause. 

XXII. 

'Tis time we should proceed with our good 
poem — 

For I maintain that it is really good, 
Not only in the body, but the proem, 

However little both are understood 
Just now — but by and by the truth will .show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude; 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours — ) 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 

Who still have shown themselves more 
brave than witty. 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's a 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat [pity. 
N^ot a barbarian, but much worse than that. 



* Sec Othello. 
t Hamlet. 










' But yuan turn'd his eyes on the STveet child 
IVhom he had saved from slaughter- ^jjhat a trophy r 



Don Juan. C. IX.. St. xx 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



709 



XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds), with all who 
war 

With Thought; and of Thought's foes by far 
most rude, 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer: If I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people: 

Without 7716^ there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels, to pull down every steeple. 
And set up in their stead some common stuff. 

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell. 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know: — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me. 
XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties; — never mind! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small 
art; he 
Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind. 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

ThaCs an appropriate simile, that jackal^ — 
I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl* 

By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 
Power's base purveyors, who for pickings 
prowl, [all. 

And scent the prey their masters would attack 
However, the poor jackals are less foul 

(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 

Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm, 'twill brush their web away; 

And without Mtf/,their poison and their claws 
Are useless. Mind, good people, what I say — 

(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause! 
The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases,tillyou shall make common cause: 
None, save the Spanish fly and attic bee, 
As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan,who had shone in the late slaughter. 
Was left upon his way with the despatch. 



Where blood was talk'd of as we would of 
I water; 

I And carcases, that lay as thick as thatch 
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catharine's pastime — who look'd on 
the match 
' Between these nations as a main of cocks, 
i Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks, 

XXX. 

And there in a kibiika he roll'd on 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole 
bone), 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings. 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or, at the least, post-chaises 

Had feathers, v/hen a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and they were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into His own hand. 

XXXII. 

At least He pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to call 

"Gentlemen farmers," — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight. 
And ** farmers" can't raise Ceres from her 
fall: 

She fell with Buonaparte — what strange 
thoughts 

Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter — wliat 
a trophy! 

O ye who build up monuments defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, [sophy 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! 

Because he could no more digest his dinner; — * 

XXXIV. 
O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect 
That one life saved, especially if young 



* In Greece, 1 never saw or heard these animals: but 
among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them in hun- 
dreds. 



* He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
been exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree 
of insanity. 



7IO 



DOX JUAN. 



1823. 



Or pretty, is a thing to recollect, 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
From the manure of human clay, though dcck'd 

With all the praises ever said or sung: 
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 
Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 
O ye great authors, luminous, voluminous 

Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, il- 
lumine us; [bribes, 
Whether you're paid by Government in 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 
Or roughly treading on the ** courtier's 
kibes," 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starva- 
tion! — 

XXXVI. 

O ye great authors! — Apropos des botteSy — 
I have forgotten what I meant to say. 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots: 
'Twas something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: 

Certes it would have been but thrown away; 

And that^s one comfort for my lost advice; 

Although, no doubt, it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. ' 

But let it go: it will one day be found I 

With other relics of '* a former world," | 

When this world shall heforniei-, underground, | 

Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, andj 

curl'd, i 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, ori 

drown'd, [hurl'dl 

Like all the worlds before, which have been! 

First out of, and then back again to, chaos, | 

The superstratum which will overlay us. | 

XXXVIII. : 
So Cuvier says; — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt; 
Like to the notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, no( to ?,2.y miles. 
And mammoths and your winged crocodiles, 
XXXIX. 

Think if then (jeorge the Fourth should be 
dug up! [East 

How the new worldlings of the then new 
Will wonder where such animals could sup! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least : 
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft ihcy pup, 

And every new creation hath decreased 



In size, from overworking the material — 
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's 
burial). 

XL. 

How will — to these young people j ust thrust out 
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough. 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, 
and sow. 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing — how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'era, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum? 

XLI. 
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 

*< The time is out of joint," and so am I. 
I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical, 

And deviate into matters rather dry. 
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 

Much too poetical : men should know why 
They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
I never know the word which will come next. 



So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
Now pondering — it is time we should narrate. 

I left Don Juan, with his horses baiting — 
Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late: 

Suppose him then at Petersburg: suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows: 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume. 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a cairngorm. 

Of yellow cassimere we may presume, 
W^hite stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk. 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns 
paler. 

Seeing how Art can make her work more grand 
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a 
jailor) — 

Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He 

Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery! 

XLV. 

ITib bandage blinp'd down into a cravat; 
I His wings bubdued to epaulettes; his quiver 



1823. 



DON yUAN. 



71! 



Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever : 

His bow converted into a cock'd hat; 
But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 

Than some wives (who make blunders no less 
stupid), 

If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
The Empress smiled; the reigning favorite 
frown'd — 

1 quite forget which of them was in hand 
Just then; as they are rather numerous found. 

Who took by turns that difiFicult command. 
Since first her Majesty was singly crown'd: 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim. 
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb. 
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to 
express. 

That though he look'd one of the seraphim. 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.* 

XLVIII. 
No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff', 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off [enough 
Or on, might dread her Majesty had not room 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom 
enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that ** high official situation." 

XLIX. 

gentle ladies! should you seek to know 
The import of this diplomatic phrase, 

Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquessf show 
His parts of speech; and, in the strange dis- 
plays 
Of that odd string of words, all in a row. 

Which none divine, and every one obeys. 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no 

meaning. 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

1 think I can explain myself without 

That sad, inexplicable beast of prey — 



* He was x}s\t. grande passion of the grand* Catharine. 
See her Life, under the head of ** Lanskoi." 

tXhis was written long before the suicide of that per- 
son. 



That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a 
doubt, 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
And here I must an anecdote relate. 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LL 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian 

What were the actual and official duties [on 

Of the strange thing some women set a value 
Which hovers oft about some married beau- 

Call'd "Cavalier servente ?" a Pygmalion [ties. 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas, too true 

'tis) [them, 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose 

Said, <* Lady, I beseech you \.o suppose themy 
LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition. 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation 

Of the imperial favorite's condition. 

'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation, 

In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station. 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of 
shoulders [holders. 

If rather broad, makes stocks rise, and their 

LIII. 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy. 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy 
With beards, and whiskers, and the like, 
the fond 

Parisian aspect, which upset old Troy, 

And founded Doctors' Commons: — I have 
conn'd [quer'd, 

The history of divorces, which, though che- 

Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIV. 

And Catharine, who loved all things (save 
her lord, [much. 

Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for 
Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 

Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
Of sentiment; and he she most adored 

Was the lamented Xanskoi, who was such 
A lover as had cost her many a tear, 
And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

O thou teierrima causa of all belli — * [script ! 

Thou gate of life and death — thou nonde- 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — -well I 

May pause in pondering how all souls are 

dipt 



*Hor. Sat. lib. I Sat. iii. 



712 



DON yUAX, 



\%2X 



In thy perennial fountain; — how n\3.Tifelil lOur veins, when things call'd sovereigns think 
Know not, since knowledge saw her'To kill, and generals turn it into jest, [it best 
branches stript j Lxi. 

Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises 1^, ^ ^ e ^' 

Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. I^he two first feelings ran their course com 



LVI. 

Some call thee ** the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best; for, after all. 

From thee we come, to thee we go, and why 
To get at thee not batter down a wall. 

Or waste a world, since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish worlds, both great and 
small; 

With or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dryland! 

LVII. 

Catharine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please (it causes all the things which be, 
So you may take your choice of this or 
that) — 

Catharine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then, recollecting the whoje empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman (which com- 
posed [tore 

At least three parts of this great whole) she 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court that watch'd each look her visage 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed [wore. 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather 
spacious, [gracious. 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's 
thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain: 

In vain! — As fall the dews on quenchless 
sands. 

Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands. 

LX. 



plete, [mouth; 

And lighted first her eye, and then her 

The whole court look'd immediately most 

sweet, [drouth — 

Like flowers well water'd after a long 

But when on the lieutenant at her feet 

Her Majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
Almost as much as on a new despatch. 
Glanced mildly, all the world was on the 
watch. 

LXII. 
Though somewhat large, exuberant, and trucu- 
lent, [a figure 
When wroth, — vAiAt, pleased, she was as fine 
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and suc- 
culent, [vigor. 
Would wish to look on while they are in 
She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with 
rigor 
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times conve- 
Was not so necessary; for they tell [nient, 
That she was handsome, and, though fierce, 
look'd lenient, 
And always used her favorites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in yc 
went. 
Your ** fortune " was in a fair way ** to swell 
A man " (as Giles says*) ; for, though she 

would widow all 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. 

LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man! and what a 
stranger 

Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head! 
And what a whirlpool, full of depth and danger. 

Is all the rest about her! Whether wed 
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her 

Mind like the wind; whatever she has said 
Or done, is light to what she'll say or do — 
The oldest thing on record, and yet new! 

LXV. 



Her next amusement was more fanciful: I 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, whoi 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull, [threw Oh Catharine! (for of all interjections. 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he /^^ thee both oh! and rt!>^ ./ belong of right. 

Her i"d was f-nunno enough ,o annul ^;[^'?r^:::^tt:r^^^-;^l?^r:y 

Ine ohudder which runs naturally Lhiou^h ^ old Debts. 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



713 



In love and war), how odd are the connectioi^ 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their 
flight! [tions: 

Just now yours were cut out in different sec- 
Firsty Ismail's capture caught your fancy 
quite; [batch; 

Next, of new knights, the fresh and glorious 
And, thirdly t he who brought you the des- 
patch ! 

LXVI. 

Shakspeare talks of ** the herald Mercury, 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;"* 

And some such visions cross'd her Majesty 
While her young herald knelt before her still. 

'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high 
For a lieutenant to climb up, but skill 

Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by 
God's blessing, [kissing." 

With youth and health, all kisses are *'heaven- 

LXVII. 

Her Majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love — she with his face, 
His grace, his God-knows-what; for Cupid's 
cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
A quintessential laudanum, or ** black drop," 
Which makes one drunk at once, without 
the base 
Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye, [dry. 
In love, drinks all life's fountains (save tears) 

LXVIII. 
He, on the other hand, if not in love, 

Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
Self-love — which, when some sort of thing 
above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer much in fashion. 
Or duchess, princess, empress, ** deigns to 
prove " [a rash one, j 

('Tis Pope's phrase) a great longing, though] 
p'or one especial person out of many, 
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may en- 
As bold as DaHiel in the lions' den, [gage, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 

To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 
And Catharine (we must say thus much for 
Catharine), [thing 

Though bold and bloody, was the kind of! 

* Hamlet, Act ui., 3c. i. 



Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an amatory pattern, 

A royal husband in all save the ring, — 

Which, being the damn'dest part of matri- 
mony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 
And when you add to this her womanhood 

In its meridian, her blue eyes or grey — 
(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good. 

Or better, as the best examples say : 
Napoleon's,Mary's(Queen of Scotland), should 

Lend to that color a transcendent ray; 
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, 
Too wise to look through optics black or 
blue)— 

LXXII. 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pen- 
sion). 
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor. 

With other extras, which we need not men- 
All these, or any one of these, explain [tion — 
Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for love is vanity, 
Selfish in its beginning as its end, 

Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to 

Itself with beauty's frail inanity, [blend 

On which the passion's self seems to depend; 

And hence some heathenish philosophers 

Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 

Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
That good old steamboat which keeps verses 
moving [glove 

'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand-and- 
With rhyme, but always leant less to im- 
proving 
The sound than sense); besides all these 
pretences [name senses — 

To love, there are those things which words 

LXXV, 

Those movements, those improvements in our 
bodies. 

Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, 

P'or such all women are at first, no doubt. 
How beautiful that moment! and how odd is 

That fever v. hich precedes the languid rout 



714 



DON yUAN. 



1823. 



Of our sensations! What a curious way 

The whole thing is, of clothing souls in clay! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with; the next grand 

Is that which may be christened love canonical 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand; 

The third sort, to be noted in our chronicle. 
As flourishing in every Christian land, 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyse — our story must 
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written; 

And the two are so mixed with human dust, 
That he who na?nes one^ both perchance 
may hit on: 

But in such matters Russia's mighty Empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 

And all lips were applied unto all ears; 
The elder ladies' wrinkles curled much crisper, 

As they beheld ; the youngest cast some leers 
On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears 
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
Of all the standing army that stood by. 

LXXIX. 
All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired who was this very new young man, 
Who promised to be great in some few hours? 

Which is full soon (though life is but a 
Already they beheld the silver showers [span). 

Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
Of several ribands, and some thousand pea- 
sants.* 

LXXX. 

Catharine was generous — all such ladies are; 

Love, that great opener of the heart, and all 
The ways that lead there, be they near or far. 

Above, below, by turnpikes great or small — 
Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war. 

And was not the best wife, unless we call 



♦ A Russian estate was always valued by the number 
of slaves upon it. 



Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better 
That one should die, than two drag on the 
fetter)— 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catharine make each lover's 
fortune. 

Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did impor- 

If history, the grand liar, ever saith [tune, 
The truth; and though grief her old age 
might shorten, 

Because she put a favorite to death, 
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation. 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXII. 
But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 

In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratu- 
lations. 
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 

Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
It is to speculate on handsome faces. 
Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how% 
A general object of attention, made 

His answers with a very graceful bow, 
As if born for the ministerial trade. 

Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 
Nature had written ** gentleman." He said 

Little, but to the purpose; and his manner 

Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXI V. 

An order from her Majesty consign'd 

Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
Of those in office: all the world look'd kind 

(As it will look sometimes with the first stare. 
Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind). 

As also did Miss Protosoff^ then there, 
Named, from her mystic office, ** I'Eprou- 
A term inexplicable to the Muse. [veuse," 

LXXXV. 
With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have justlit on a <* heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill: 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



715 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



1823. 



I. 



VI. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found, 
In that slight startle from his contempla- 
tion — 

*Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd * 'gravitation;" 

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 

Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 

II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike 
road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes: 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam engines will conduct him to the moon. 

III. 
And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just 
now, 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper. 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 

And my internal spirit cut a caper: 
And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor. 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I've sail'd, and sail; but for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim; 

But at the least I've shunn'd the common shore, 
And, leaving land far out of sight,would skim 

The ocean of eternity: the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 

But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 

Where ships have founderVl, as doth many a 
boat. 

V. 

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 

Of favoritism, but not yet in the blush; — 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse, at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room; 
It is enough that Fortune found him flush 

or youth and vi^^or, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 



But soon they grow again, and leave their nest. 
*«Oh!" saith the Psalmist, *« that I had a 
dove's 
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest I " 

And who that recollects young years and 

loves — [breast 

Though hoary now, and with a withering 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere — but would 
much rather [father? 

Sigh like a son, than cough like his grand- 

TII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') 
shrink, 
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow. 
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
Which threatens inundations deep and yel- 
low! [think 
Such difference do a few months make. You'd 
Grief a rich field that never would lie fallow : 
No more it doth; its ploughs but change their 

boys, 
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 
VIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart, and 
now 

And then before sighs cease; for oft the one 
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 

Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow, 

Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure 

for clay, [they! 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy 

IX. 
But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favor of the moon 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory, [June, 
Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come? Much rather should he court the 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. [ray, 

X. 

Besides, he had some qualities which fm 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 

The former know what's what; v/hile new- 
fledged chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 



7i6 



DON- JUAN. 



1823. 



In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence Love 
sprung. 
Some reckon women by their suns or years: 
I rather think the moon should date the dears. 



And why? Because she's changeable and 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er [chaste. 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to ** their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself: — if not, I must. 

XII. 
Old enemies who have become new friends. 

Should so continue — *tis a point of honor: 
And I know nothing which could make amends 

For a return to hatred: I would shun her 
Like garlic, howsoever she extends [her. 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun 
Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest 

foes — 
Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 
XIII. 

This were the worst desertion: — renegadoes, 
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, 

Would scarcely join again the **reformadoes,"* 
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty; 

And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
Whether in Caledon or Italy, [seize 

Should not veer round with every breath, nor 

To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 
The baser sides of literature and life. 

And nought remains unseen, but much untold. 
By those who scour those double vales of 
strife. 

While common men grow ignorantly old. 
The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife. 

Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 

And with it all the process of digestion. 
XV. 

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that's the reason he himself 's so dirty; 

The endless sootf bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt: he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 

In all tiTeir habits — not ^o you, I own: 

As CiXisar wore his robe, you wear your gown. 

* " Reformers/' or rather " Re'cmcd." The Daro:- 
Bradwardine in Waver ley is authority in the word. 
t Q lory: sui' ?— Printer's DcvU. 



XVI. 
And all our little feuds, at least all miru^ 

Dear Jeff"rey, once my most redoubted foe 
(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 

To make such puppets of us things below), 
Are over: Here's a health to **Auld Lang 
Syne!" 

I do not know you, and may never know 
Vour face — but you have acted, on the whole, 
Most nobly; and I own it from my soul. 

XVII. 

And when I use the phrase of ** Auld Lang 
Syne," 
'Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 
For me, for I would rather take my wine 
With you, than aught (save Scott^ in your 
proud city. [whine, 

I But somehow — it may seem a schoolboy's 
1 And yet I seek not to be grand or witty, 
! But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
A whole one, and my heart flies to my head — 

I XVIII. 

As ** Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one 

and all, [and clear streams, 

Scotch plaids, Scotch srloods, the blue hilis. 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's ^lack 

All my boy-feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own 

pall, [seems 

Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me 

My childhood in this childishness of mine: 

I care not — 'tis a glimpse of ** Auld Lang 

Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit [curly, 
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and 

I rail'd at Scots, to show my wrath and wit. 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 'tis in viain such sallies to permit, [early: 
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and 

I ** scotched, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my 
blood, [flood." 

And love the land of <* mountain and of 
XX. 

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal — [think 
For both are much the same, since what men 



* The Brig of Don, near the " Auld Toun " of Aber- 
deen, with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream 
below, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, 
though perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb 
which made me pause to cross it and yet lean over it 
with a childish delight, being an only son, at least by the 
mother's side. The saying, as recollected by me, was 
this, but I have never heard or seen it bi:ico i was nine 
.years of age: 
' " Brig di Balgounie, blacJ^s yotir wall, 

VV'i' a wife's ae son, and a mear's ae Joal 
Douu ye shall fa' I" 



i823. 



DON yUAiW 



717 



Exists when the once thinkers are less real | 

Than what they thought, for mind can never 

sink, ■ 

And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal, ' 

And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 

Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, [there; — 

And know no more of what is here, than: 

XXI. i 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — j 

How we won't mention, W/^j we need not say : 
Few youthful minds can stand the strong con- 
cussion 

Of any slight temptation in their way; 
But his just now were spread as is a cushion 

Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honor; gay 
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money. 
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 
The favor of the Empress was agreeable; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard. 
Young people of his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 
About this time, as might have been antici- 
pated, 
Seduced by youth, and dangerous examples, 
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; 

Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
On our fresh feelings, but — as being partici- 
pated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 
And shut our souls up in us, like a shell -fish. 

XXIV 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not mat- 
ter; [ter. 

And wrinkles, the d — d democrats, won't flat- 

XXV. 

And death, the sovereign's sovereign, though 
the great 
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels, 
With his Agrarian^ laws, the high estate 

* Tiberius Gracchus, being tribune of the people, de- 
manded in their name the execution of the Agrarian 
laws ; by which all persons possessing more than a cer- 
tain number of acres were to be deprived of the surplus 
for the benefit of the poor citizens. 



Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, 

and revels, [await 

To one small grass-grown patch (which must 

Corruption for its crop), with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now — 
Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, 
and glitter, [furry — 

In this gay clime of bearskins, black and 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that's 
bitter) [flurry. 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a 
Through all the ** purple and fine linen,'* 
fitter 
For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 



XXVII. 
state we won't 



describe: we 



And this same 
could 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; 
But, getting nigh grim Dante's ** obscure 
wood,"* 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
liut, whence wise travellers drive with cir- 
cumspection 
Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreaiy frontier 
Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one 
tear; — 

xxvni. 
I won't describe — ihat is, if I can help 

Description; and I won't reflect — that is, 
If I can stave off thougiit, which, as a whelp 

Clings to its teat, sticks to me through the 
Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp [abyss 

Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss 
Drains its first drauglit of lips: — but, as I said, 
I won't philosophize, and willht read. 

XXIX. 
Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted — 
A thing which happens rarely. This he owed 
Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valor; much also to the blood he show'd. 
Like a race-horse; much to each dress he 
sported, 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd. 
As purple clouds befringe the sun: but most 
He owed to an old woman and his post. 
XXX. 

He wrote to Spain: — and all his near rela- 
tions, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 



* Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura. 

Inferno, Canto I. 



7i8 



DON yUAX. 



1823. 



Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations, 
And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say 

That, with the addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 
XXXI. 

His mother. Donna Inez, finding, too. 

That, in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, 



As anybody on the elected roll, [day, 

Which portions out, upon the judgment- 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday 
scroll. 
Such as the conqueror W^illiam did repay 
His knights with; lotting others' properties 
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 
I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight and forty manors 



He had brought his spending to a hand- (If that my memory doth not greatly err) 



some anchor, — 
Replied "that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasures after which wild youth 
will hanker: 
As the sole sign of man being in his senses 
Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 
** She also recommended him to God, [er; 
And no less to God's Son, as well as Moth- 
Warn'd him against Greek worship, which 
looks odd [smother 

In Catholic eyes, but told him, too, to 
Outward dislike, which don't look well 
abroad: 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
Born in a second wedlock; and, above 
All, praised the Empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 
** She could not too much give her approba- 
tion 
Unto an Empress who preferr'd young men, 



Were their reward for following Billy's ban- 
ners; [fair 
And though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes* like tan- 
ners; [duce, 
Yet, as they founded churches with the pro- 
You'U deem, no doubt, they put it to a good 
use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 

He felt like other plants call'd sensitive. 
Which shrink from touch as monarchs do 
from rhymes. 

Save such as Southey can afford to give. 
Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 

In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 
Before Mid-day: perhaps, despite his duty. 
In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty. 

XXXVIII. 
Perhaps — but sans perhaps, we need not seek 

For causes young or old; the canker-worm 



Whose age, and what was better still, whose Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
nation [then) : — | As well as further drain the wither'd form: 

And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
At home it might have given her some vexa-i His bills in, and, however we may storm, 
tion: They must be paid: though six days smoothly 

But where thermometers sink down to ten, I run. 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never |The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river." 



XXXIV. 

Oh ior 2i forty -parson power* to chant 
Thy praise. Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, • 
Not practice! Oh for trump of cherubim! 1 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, j 

Who, though her spectacles at last grewi 



XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick: 
The Empress was alarm'd; and her physi- 
cian 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augured of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; 



Drew quiet consolation through its hint, [dim,: ^^ which the whole court was extremely trou- 
When she could no more read the pious print, j bled [doubled, 



XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul! 
But went to heaven in as sincere away 



*A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" of 
a ste.im engine. That mad wag, the Rev. S. §., sitting | 
by a brother clergyman at dinner, observed afterwards 
that his dull neighbor had a " twtlve-Parson poaver" of I 
conversation. 



The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines 

XL. 
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumors; 
Some said he had been poison'cl by Potem- 
kin: 

*"Hydc." I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 

word, and, as such, subject to the ta.K of a quibble. 



1823, 



DON JUAN, 



719 



Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors, 

Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin: 
Some .said 'twas a concoction of the humors 

Which with the blood too readily will claim 
Others, again, were ready to maintain [kin: 
" 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. I 

But here is one prescription, out of many: { 

*'Sodse sulphat. 3vj., 3ss. Mann^e optim. 
Aq. fervent, f. ^iss. 3ij- tinct. Sennse | 

Haustus " (and here the surgeon came and; 

cupp'd him), i 

«* R. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecaciianhae " | 

(With more besides, if Juan had not stopp'd] 
'* Bolus Potassse Sulphuret, sumendus, [em), 
Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 

XLII. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundu7n ariein ; but although we sneer 

In health, when ill we call them to attend us. 
Without the least propensity to jeer: 

While that hiatus maxifiie dejienduSy 

To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie or soft Abernethy.* 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit; and though death had threaten'd an 
ejection, 

His youth and constitution bore him through. 
And sent the doctors in a new direction. 

But still his state was delicate: the hue 

Of health but flickered with a faint reflection 

Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 

The faculty, who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catharine look a little grim. 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion: 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
And drooping like an eagle's with dipt 
pinion. 

She then resolved to send him on a mission. 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation, 
Between the British Cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd v/ith all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to 
push on: 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 

'^ [Both remarkable for rough plainness of speech.] 



Hides, train-oil, taTlow, and the rights of 

Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their uti possidetis. 

XLVI. 

So Catharine, who had a handsome way 
Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 

This secret charge on Juan, to display 
At once her royal splendor, and reward 

His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
Received instructions how to play his card. 

Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors. 

Which show'd what great discernment was 
the donor's. 

XLVII. 

But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning; 
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 
But to continue: though her years were 
waning. 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens: 
And though her dignity brook'd no com- 
plaining. 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 
But time, the comforter, will come at last: 
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that 
number 
Of candidates, requesting to be placed, 

Made Catharine taste, next night, a quiet 
slumber: — 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber. 
But always choosing with deliberation, 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 
While this high post of honor's in abeyance, 

For one or two days, reader, we request 
You'll mount, with our young hero, the con- 
veyance [best 

Which wafted him from Petersburg: the 
Barouche, which had the glory to display once 

The fair Czarina's autocratic crest. 
When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris,* 
Was given to her favorite, and now dore his. 

L. 
A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, 

All private favorites of Don Juan: for 
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 

He had a kind of inclination, or [vermin. 
Weakness, for what most people deem mere 

Live animals: an old maid of threescore 

* The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by 
the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 

[1787.] 



72o 



DON- yUAX, 



1823. 



For cats and birds more penchant ne'er dis- 
play 'd, 
Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LI. 

The a^imals aforesaid occupied 

Their station; there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the 
wide [varies 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild muse 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile; 

And with that gentle, serious character, 
As rare in living beings as a fossile [Cuvier!" 

Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, ** grand 
111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all 
must err. 
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 
Was tranquil, though she knew not why or 
wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter, love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was: 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings; and the other class, 

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom, for he never had a sister: [her! 

Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual; for, besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee 
(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt 

As acids rouse a dormant alkali), [tides, 
Although {^twill happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be. 
There was the purest Platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 
Just now there was no peril of temptation: 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation: 

His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved. 
Owing to him: — as also her salvation, 

Through his means and the church's, might 
be paved: [serted, 

But one thing's odd, which here must be in- 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LVI. 

*Twas strange enough she should retain the 

impression, [and slaughter; 

Through such a scene of change, and dread, 



But though three bishops told her the trans- 

I gression, 

j She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 
!She also had no passion for confession: 
I Perhaps she had nothing to confess: — no 
matter [it — 

Whate'er the cause, the church made little of 
• She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 



{In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
j Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
{In place of what her home and friends once 
I were. 

I He naturally loved what he protected; 
j And thus they form'd a rather curious pair: 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
I In neither clime, time, blood, with her de 
fender; [tender. 

And yet this want of ties made theirs more 

LVIII. 
They journey'd on through Poland and through 

Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous 
farce saw [**Biron."* 

Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 
'Tis the same landscape which the modern 
Mars saw [siren! 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the 
To lose by one month's frost,some twenty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 
Let this not seem an anti-climax: — *' Oh! 
My Guard! my old Guard! " exclaim'd the 
god of clay. 
Think of the thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snowf 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's 
flame. 

LX. 
From Poland they came on through Prussia 
Proper, 
And KOnigsberg, the capital, whose vaunt, 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 



* In the Empress Ann's time, Biren, her favorite, as- 
sumed the name and arms of the *' Birons " of France, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are still the daughters of Courland of that name: 
one of them I remember seeing in England, in the 

blessed year of the Allies — the Duchess of S , to 

whom the English Duchess of Somerset presented me as 
a namesake. 



IS23. 



DON yUAN, 



721 



Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their pos- 
tilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the 
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine. [like. 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine: 

A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confines, half-seas over. 

LXII. 
But Juan posted on through Mannheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a 
spectre 
Of the good feudal times forever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 
From thence he was drawn onwards to Co- 
logne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone,* 
The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Hel- 
voetsluys. 

That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches. 
Where juniper expresses its best juice, [riches. 

The poor man's sparkling substitute fori 
Senates and sages have condemn'd its use, — | 

But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel [cruel. 
Good government has left them, seems but 

LXIV. 

Here he embark'd; and, with a flowing sail. 
Went bounding for the island of the free. 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half 

a gale. [the sea. 

High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in 

And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be. 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiff's 

Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the 
cliffs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall, along 
The blue sea's border; and Don Juan felt — 

What even yoiing strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 



* St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
extant in i8i6, and may be so yet as much as ever. 



Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 
And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 

I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, 

Which holds what might have been the 
noblest nation; 
But though I owe it little but my birth, 

I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
For its decaying fame and former worth, [tion) 

Seven years (the usual term of transporta- 
Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 
When a man's country's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 
Alas! could she but fully, truly know 

How her great name is now throughout ab- 
How eager all the earth is for the blow [horr'd ; 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 

How all the nations deem her their worst foe. 

That worse than worst of foes ^\\\^ once adored 

False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 

And now would chain them,to the very mind; — 

LXVIII. 
Would she be proud, or boast herself the free. 

Who is but first of slaves? The nations are 
In prison — but the jailor, what is he? 

No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 
Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 
From the enjoyment of the earth and air. 
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties. 

Thy cliff's, dear Dover, harbor, and hotel; 
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; 

Thy waiters running rnucks at every bell; 
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 

To those who upon land or water dwell; 
And last, not least, to strangers not instructed, 
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is de- 
ducted. 

LXX. 
Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 

And rich in rubies, diamonds, cash,and credit, 
Who did not limit much his bills per week, 

Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 
(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle (ireek. 

Before him summ'd the awful scroll and 
read it); [sunny. 

But, doubtless, as the air, though seldom 
Is free, the respiration's worth the money. 

LXXl. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 
Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, 
splash through puddle; 
46 



722 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



Hurrah! how swiftly speeds tlie post so merry I 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With ** schnapps" — sad dogs, whom ** Hunds- 

fot" or '* Verflucter" 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 
Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 

Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 
As going at full speed: no matter where its 

Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, 
And merely for the sake of its own merits: 

For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 
The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral : [stone, 
Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody 

Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 
In the same quaint, uninterested tone: — 

There's glory again for you, gentle reader ! All 
Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 

Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias. 

Which form that bitter draught, the human 
species. 

LXXIV. 

The effect on Juan was, of course, sublime; 

He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw- 
That casque which never stoop'd except to 
Time. [awe. 

Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited 
Who died in the then great attempt to climb 

O'er kings, w^ho now at least must talk of 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, [law 

And ask'd why such a structure had been 

raised. 

LXXV. 

And being told it was **God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, 

The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
His holy temples in the lands which bred 
'^he true Believers, and her infant brow 
Was bent with grief that Mahomet should re- 
sign 
A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 
LXXVI. 

On! on! through meadows, managed like a 
garden, 
^ paradise of hops and high production; 
For, after years of travel, by a bard, in 

Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, 
A green field is a sight which makes him par- 
don [tion, 
The absence of that more sublime construc- 



Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 
Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 



And when I think upon a pot of beer 

But I won't weep! — and so drive on, pos- 
tilions! 
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of free mil- 
lions, 
A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
Who **kick against the pricks " just at this 

juncture. 
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVIII. 

What a delightful thing's a turnpike road! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings 
waving; 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail. But, onward as we roll, 
<* Stir git atnari aliquid''' — the toll! 

LXXIX. 

Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! 
Take lives, take wives, take aught except 
men's purses, 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
They hate a murderer much less than a claim- 
ant 
On that sweet ore which everybody nurses. — 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, 
But keep your hands out of his breeches 
pocket. 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine; ye monarchs, hearken 

To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 
Just as the day began to wane and darken, 
O'er the high hill which looks, with pride 
or scorn, [in 

i Towards the great city. — Ye who have a spark 
I Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 
[According as you take things well or ill: — 
I Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 

Which well beseem'd the ** Devil's drawing- 
room,'* 
As some have qualified that wondrous place; 

But Juan felt, though not approaching noniy 
As one who, though he were not of the race, 



1823. 



DON yUAiV. 



723 



Revered the soil, of those true sons th'e mother I With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 
Who butcher'd half the earth,* and bullied j And brush a web or two from off the walls, 
t'other.f 



LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and ship- 
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye [ping. 

Could reach, with here and there a sail just 
skipping 
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 

Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
On tip-toe through their sea-coal canopy; 

A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 

On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 
LXXXIII. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapor 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and 
paper) ; 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper. 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere. 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I; as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by. 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance; and at least I'll try 

To tell you \.x\iihsyou will not take as true. 
Because they are so — A male Mrs. Fry, 



♦India. 



t America. 



LXXXV. 
Oh, Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why 

Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore 
not begin 
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try 

Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
To mend the people's an absurdity, 

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 
Unless you make their betters better; — Fie! 
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 
Teach them the decencies of good threescore: 

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland 

dresses; [more; 

Tell them that youth once gone returns no 

That hired huzzas redeem no land's dis- 
Tell them SirWilliam Curtis is a bore, [tresses; 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses. 
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. 



Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated. 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'Tis not so to be good; and be it stated. 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least 

state; [prated 

And tell them But you won't, and I have 

Just now enough: but by-and-by I'll prattle. 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO THE ELEVENTH. 



1823. 



When Bishop Berkeley said '< there was no 
matter," [said; 

And proved it — 'twas no matter what he 
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter. 

Too subtle for the airiest human head; 
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter 

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead. 
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 
And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. 
What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 

Universe universal egotism. 
That all's ideal — all ourselves; I'll stake the 
World (be it what you will) that that's no 
schism. [some take thee. 

Oh, Doubt!— if thou be'st Doubt, for which 



But which I doubt extremely — thou sole 

prism 

Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of 

spirit, [bear it. 

Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly 

III. 
For ever and anon comes Indigestion 

(Not the most **dainty Ariel") and perplexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question; 
And that which, after all, my spirit vexes, 
Is,that I find no spot where man can rest eye on. 

Without confusion of the sorts and sexes 
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
The world, which at the worst's a glorious 
blunder 

IV. 

If it be chance; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better : — Lest it should 



724 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the 
wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude. 
They're right : our days are too brief for af- 
fording 
Space to dispute what 710 one ever could 
Decide, and everybody one day will 
Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

V. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there: 

If I agree that what is, is: then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical : 
I don't know what the reason is — the air, 

Perhaps; but, as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the Divinity 
(But that\ never doubted, nor the Devil); 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; 
The third, the usual Origin of Evil; 

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertible a level, 

That I devoutly wish'd the three were four. 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme. — The man who has stood on 
the Acropolis, 
And look'd down over Attica; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constanti- 
nople is. 
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metrop- 
olis. 
Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, [ance — 
May not think much of London's fii-st appear- 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence. 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill: 
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 

Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
Where London streets ferment in full ac- 
tivity; 

While everything around was calm and still. 
Except the creak of wheels, which on their 
pivot he 

Heard; and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 

Of cities, that boil over with their scum: — 

IX. 

I say Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, [mit; 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the sum- 
And lost in wonder of so great a nation, [it. 

Gave way to it, since he could not o'ercome 



"And here," he cried, ** is Freedom's chosen 
station; [entomb it 

Here peals the people's voice, nor can en- 
Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection 
Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 

X. 

** Here are chaste wives, pure lives: here 

people pay 

But what they please; and, if that things be 

'Tis only that they love to throw away [dear, 

Their cash to show how much they have a 

Here laws are all inviolate; none lay [year. 

Traps for the traveller ; every highway's clear : 

Here " — he was interrupted by a knife, [life!" 

With — ** Damn your eyes! your money or your 

XI. 

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four 
pads, 

In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, 

Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre. 
In which the heedless gentleman who gads 

Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
May find himself, within that isle of riches. 
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word [damn!" 
Of English, save their shibboleth ** God 

And even that he had so rarely heard, [laam," 
He sometimes thought 'twas only their **Sa- 

Or **God be with you!" and 'tis not absurd 
To think so; for, half English as I am 

(To my misfortune), never can I say [way. 

I heard them wish *< God with you," save that 



Juan yet quickly understood their gesture; 

And, being somewhat choleric and sudden. 
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture. 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native 
mud in. 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
** O Jack! I'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody 
Frenchman!" 

XIV. 

On which Jack and his train set off at speed; 

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 

And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flinU 



1523. 



DON J VAX. 



725 



** Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's 
wont 

To welcome foreigners in this way : now 
I recollect some innkeepers who don't 

Differ, except in robbing with a bow 
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 

But what is to be done? I can't allow 
The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 
So take him up; I'll help you with the load." 

XVI. 

But ere they could perform this pious duty, 
The dying man cried, ** Hold! I've got my 
gruel! [booty; 

Oh for a glass of rnax ! * We've miss'd our 
Let me die where I am ! " And as the fuel 
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and 
he drew ill 
His breath — he from his swelling throat untied 
A kerchief, crying, **Give Sal that!" — and 
died. 

XVII. 

The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell 
down 

Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell 
Exactly why it was before him thrown. 

Nor what themeaningof the man's farewell. 
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 

A thorough varmint, and a rf^/ swell. 
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, 
His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 
In all the circumstances of the case. 

As soon^s **Crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 
His travels to the capital apace; — 

Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space. 

Have been obliged to slay a free-born native 

In self-defence: this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man. 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle 

Who, in a row, like Tom could lead the van. 
Booze in the ken,f or at the spellken hustle?:f 

Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's 

ban) [muzzle? 

On the high toby-spice § so flash the 



* Gin. 

t [Ken, a house that harbors thieves.] 

+ [The theatre.] 

§ (Robbery on horscbac.J 



I Who, on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his 
\ blowing). 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing ? ' 
I XX. 

jBut Tom's no more — and so no more of Tom. 
Heroes must die; and, by God's blessing, 'tis 
I Not long before the most of them go home. 

Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other *<tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at 
; once; — 

XXI. 

I Through Groves, so call'd as being void of 
! trees [pects named 

I (Like lucuSj from no light); through pros- 
, Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to 
please, [framed 

Nor much to climb; through little boxes 
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
With «' To be let " upon their doors pro- 
claim'd; [dise," 

Through "Rows" most modestly call'd **Para- 
Which Eve might quit without much sacri- 
fice : — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and 
a whirl 

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl:" 

There mails fast flying off like a delusion: 
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 

In windows: here the lamplighter's infusion 
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
(For in those days we had not got to gas); — 

XXIII. 
Through this, and much, and more, is theap- 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon: [proach 

* The advance of science and of language has ren- 
dered it unnecessary to translate the above good and 
true English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of 
a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
days : 

*' On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle. 
In spite of each gallows old scout : 
If you at the spellken can't hustle, 
You'll be hobbled in making a clout. 
" Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty. 
When she hears of your scaly mistake. 
She'll surely turn snitch for the forty. 
That her Jack may be regular weight." 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
translation, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor ot 
Pugilism ; who, I trust, still retains the strength and 
symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good 
humor, and athletic as well as m^ntfil accomplishments. 



726 



DON JUAN. 



Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or 
coach, [one. 

With slight exceptions all the ways seem 
I could say more, but do not choose to en- 
croach 
Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge 

XXIV. ; 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound oi 
Thamis — ' 

Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream — 
Though hardly heard through multifarious 
*' damme's." [gleam,, 

The lamps of W^estminster's more regular 
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where 
fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
Make this a sacred part of Albion's Isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the 
better: 
Stonehenge is not — but what the devil is it? 
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 

That madmen may not bite you, on a visit. 
The Bench, too, seats or suits full many a 
debtor: [pie quiz it), 

The Mansion House, too (though some peo- 
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection: 
But then the Abbey's worth the whole collec- 
tion. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, 
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation. 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with the Continent's illumination. 

Whose cities Night by no means deigns to 

gloss. [nation: I 

The French were not yet a lamplightingi 

And when they grew so — on their new-found; 
lantern, | 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 
A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country seats; 

But the old way is best for the purblind: 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fat u us to the mind. 
Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and 

frighten. 
Must burn more brightly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 
But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
Could recommence to hunt his honest man, i 



1823. 

And found him not amidst the various pro- 
genies 
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodg- 
' ing his 

Vet undiscover'd treasure. What / can, 
• Lve done to find the same,throughout life'sjour- 
I But see the world is only one attorney, [ney^ 

; XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 
Through crowds, and carriages, but waxing 
thinner, [spell 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 

Admitted a small party, as night fell — 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner. 

Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace, and St. James's ** Hells."* 

XXX. 
They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from 
the front door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and, as usual, several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London, when the daylight's o'er; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage — 
But Juan now, in stepping from his carriage 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
Forthose whom favor or vvhom fortune swells. 

And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie) 
Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 
Juan, whose was a delicate commisfton. 

Private, though publicly important, bore 
No title to point out, with due precision, 

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
'Twas merely known that, on a secret mission, 

A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who 
was said [head. 

(In whispers) to have turned his sovereign's 

XXXIII. 
Some rumor, also, of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and lov«s; 



* " Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
be now in this life, 1 know not. Before I was of age, 1 
knew them pretty accurately, both "gold" and "sil- 
ver." 1 was once nearly called out by an acquaintance, 
because, when he asked me where I thought that his 
soul would be found hereafter, I answered " In Silver 
Hell." 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



727 



And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion. 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary; but then 'tis in the head; 

Yet as the consequences are as bright 

As if they acted with the heart instead^ ♦ 

What, after all, can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which you start. 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

' To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace 

By those who govern in the mood potential. 
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth 

face, [ti^l) 

Thought (what in state affairs is most essen- 
That they as easily might do the youngster, 
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland 

songster. 

XXXVI. 
They err'd, as aged men will do: but by- 

And-by we'll talk of that: and if we don't, 
'Twill be because our notion is not high 

Of politicians and their double front. 
Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 

Now what I love in woman is, they won't 
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 
And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but 

The truth in masquerade; and I defy 
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 

A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
The very shadow of true Truth would shut 

Up annals, revelations, poesy. 
And prophecy — except it should be dated 
Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 

She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her 
brow 
Blushes for those who will not; — but to sigh 

Is idle; let us, like most others, bow, 
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, 

After the good example of ** Green Erin," 

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for 
"Vvearing. 



XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration — 

I don't know which was more admired, or less : 
One monstrous diamond drew much observa- 

Which Catharine in a moment of iv^-esse [tion, 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) 

Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings. 

Who must be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 
Until their royal riddle's fully read; 

The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

By foul corruption into streams — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay. 

XLI. 

And insolence, no doubt, is what they are 
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labor, 

In the dear offices of peace or war; [neighbor, 
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next 

When for a passport, or some other bar 
To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), 

If he found not in this spawn of taxborn riches. 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLII. 

But Juan was received with much empresse- 
ftient : — 
These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
From our next neighbor's land, where, like a 
chessman. 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow. 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
In islands, is, it seems, downright and thor- 
ough, 
More than on continents — as if the sea [free. 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more 

XLIII. 

And yet the British ** Damme" 's rather Attic: 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic 
Spirit would name, and therefore even I 
won't anent* 

This subject quote; as it would be schismatic 
\xi politessey and have a sound affronting 
in't: — [daring: — 

But ** Damme " 's quite ethereal, though too 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 



* " Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning '• concern- 
ing" — " with regard to." It has been made English by 
the Scotch novels; and, as the Frenchman said, '^ if it |^ 
not, ou^ht to b€,^n^^^** 



738 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



For downright rudeness, you may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Xoiv') you may cross the blue deep and white, 
foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
Vou leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
On general topics: poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

XLV. 

In the great world — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, j 

And about twice two thousand people, bred i 
By no means to be very wise or witty, | 

But to sit up while others lie in bed, \ 

And look down on the universe with pity — \ 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, | 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride. 
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or 
pride) 
'Tis also of some moment to the latter: 

A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin — and, what's still worse, the 
trouble. 

XLVII. 
But Juan w^as a bachelor — of arts. 

And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung. 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's [and had 

Softest of melodies, and could be sad 
Or#cheerful, without any '* flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time; and though a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLVIII. 
I-'air virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues; ] 

For both commodities dwell by the Thames,' 

The painting and the painted : youth, ceruse, i 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims,! 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse: 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious moth- 
ers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 
The milliners who furnish "drapery misses,"* 

Throughout the season, upon speculation 

♦"Drapery Misses." ThLs term is probably anythi ig 
now but a t/iystery. It was, however, almost so to me 
when I first returned from the East in 1811-181-2. It 
means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable young ft 



Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Though such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 

Not to be overlook'd — and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, 
and paid it. 

L. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er son- 
And with the pages of the last Review [nets, 

L^ne the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue; 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian, 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion. 



Juan, who was a little superficial. 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to an- 

His duties, warlike, loving, or official, [swer; 
His steady application as a dancer. 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

LII. 
However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 
Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 

And pass'd for ^arguments of good endur- 
That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith [ance. 

(Who at sixteen translated Hercules Furens 
Into as furious English), with her best look, 
Set down his sayings in her commonplace 
book. 

LIU. 
Juan knew several languages — as well [in time 

He might — and brought them up with skill. 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle. 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime: 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Mcevia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

male, well-instructed by her friends, and furnished by 
her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
j when married, by her hiisband. The riddle w:is first 
! read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my prais- 
jing the *' drapery" of the " untochered" but pretty vir- 
jginities (like Mrs. Ann Page) of the then day, which has 
j now been some years yesterday. She assured me that 
I the thing was common in London; and as her own thou- 
sands, and blooming looks, and rich smiplicity of array, 
jput any suspicion in her own case out of the question, 1 
confess I gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, 
[authorities might be cited, in which case I could quote 
both "drapery" and the wearers. Let us hope, how 
' ever, that it is now obsolete. 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



729 



LIV. 
However, he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral; 
Also the mighty ** greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 

LV. 

In twice five years the ** greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — 

Was reckon'd a considerable time, 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems 
Cain: 
La Belle Alliance of dunces down at zero, 

Now that the lion's falPn, may rise again; 
But I will fall at least as fell my hero; 

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
Or to some lonely isle of jailors go. 
With turncoat Southey 'for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 
Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and 
Campbell 

Before and after : but now grown more holy, 
The muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 

With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 
And Pegasus has a Psalmodic amble 

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
Who shoes the glorious animals with stilts, 
A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts! 

LVIII. 
Still he excels that artificial hard [vine 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though the 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward — 

That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine; 
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard; | 

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every, 
line: — \ 

Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least \ 

The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. — 

LIX. j 

Then there's my gentle Euphues,who, they say, i 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me .** ' 

He'll find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both , or either, it may be. 

* Barry Cornwall (Procter) had been so called by a 
reviewer, i 



Some persons think that Coleridge hath the 

sway, [three ; 

And Wordsworth hath supporters two or 

And that deep-mouthed Bcjeotian, ** Savage 
Landor," 

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique. 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek, 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late. 

Much as they might have been supposed to 
speak.* 
Poor fellow! his was an untoward fate; 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 

Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will 
know 

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances: they are too numerous, like 
the thirty [dirty. 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but 

LXII. 
This is the literary lower empire. 

Where the praetorian bands take up the 

matter; — [samphire," 

A ** dreadful trade," like his who ** gathers 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter. 
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 
I think I know a trick or two would turn 

Their flanks; — but it is hardly worth my 
while 
With such small gear to give myself concern: 

Indeed, I've not the necessary bile; 
My natural temper is really aught but stern. 

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile ; 
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey. 
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past 

With some small profit through that field so 
sterile, 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

♦ Divince particuiafn attr^e. 



73^ 



DON JUAN. 



1823. 



Left it before he had been treated very ill; 

And henceforth found himself more gaily 
Amongst the higher spirits of the day, [class'd 
The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His morns he pass'd in business — which, dis- 
sected, 

Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 
That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal cloth- 
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, [ing. 

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
Which grows no better, though 'tis time it 
should. 

LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons. 
Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons 
Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit 
nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; 
But, after all, it is the only " bower" 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the 
world; [then roar 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels. 
Through street and square fast flashing chari- 
ots hurl'd 
Likeharness'd meteors; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are 
twirl'd; 
Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few. 
An earthly paradise of *'Or Molu." 

LXVIII. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
With the three thousandth curtsey; there 
the waltz. 

The only dance which teaches girls to think, I 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink. 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes, and dames condemn'd to 
climb. 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 

Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out, of the way, 
Where he may fix himself like small " Jack 
Horner,'* 



And let the Babel round run as it may, 

And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 
Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 
Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by; and he 

Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering 

sea , [to where 

Of gems, and plumes, and pearls, and silks. 
He deems it is his proper place to be; 

Dissolving in the waltz, to some soft air, 
Or proudlier prancing, with mercurial skill. 
Where Science marshals forth her own quad- 
rille. 

LXXI. 
Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 

Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride, 
Let him take care that that which he pursues 

Is not at once too palpably descried. 
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste; impatience is a blundering guide, 
Amongst a people famous for reflection, 
Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 
But if you can contrive, get next at supper; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle: — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,* 
Which sits forever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in 
vogue! Ill 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue, 

And watch and ward; whose plans a word too 
Or little overturns; and not the few [much 

Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new. 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or non- 
sense, [since. 

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long 
LXX IV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a. stranger. 

Like other slaves, of course must pay his ran- 
som. 
Before he can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble; — 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

* Scotch for gdblin. 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



731 



LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is 
anticipated; 
Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; 
Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated; 
Their cash comes froni, their wealth goes 
to, a Jew: [pated 

Both senates see their nightly votes partici- 
Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; 
And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and 

w d, 

The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. • 

** Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty. 
" Where [Alas, 

The world in which a man was born?" 
Where is the world of^'2^/z/ years past? ^ Twas 
there — 
I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, 
ere 
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, 

kings. 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows: 
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell : 

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or Senate in their spell? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her 
woes? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles 
loved well? [Cents? 

Where are those martyr'd saints, the Five per 

And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's Brummel? Dish'd. Where's Long 

Pole Wellesley? Diddled. 

Where's Whitbread? Romilly? Where's 

George the Third? [riddled.) 

Where is his will? (That's not so soon un- 

And where is **Fum" the Fourth, our 

«* royal bird"? [fiddled 

Gone down, it seems, to Scotland, to be 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 
"Caw me, caw thee" — for six months had 

been hatching 
The scene of royal itch and roya scratching. 

LXXIX. 



An evolution oft performed of late :) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London 

hisses? 
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd, as usual. 

Where [were. 

My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 
Divorced, or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the lists of routs and dances 
is — 
ThoM Mo?'n{ng Post y sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
Of fashion — say what streams now fill those 
channels? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the 
Continent, [tenant. 

Because the times have hardly left them one 

LXXXI, 

Some, who once set their caps at cautious 
dukes, [brothers : 

Have taken up at length with younger 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks; 
Some maids have been made wives, some 
merely mothers, 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
There's little strange in this, but something 
strange is [changes. 

The unusual quickness of these common 
LXXXII. 

Talk not of seventy years as age : in seven 
I have seen more changes, down from mon- 
archs to 
The humblest individual under heaven. 

Than might suffice a modern century through. 

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 

Change grows too changeable, without 

being new: 

Nought's permanent among the human race. 

Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

LXXXII I. 
I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a 
Jupiter, 
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 

If that can well be, than his wooden look. 

But it is time that I should hoist my ** Blue 

Peter," [shook 

And sail for a new theme: — I have seen, and 

To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; 



Where is Lord This, and where my Lady That? ^^t <ion't pretend to settle which was best. 
The Honorable Mistresses and Misses? | LXXXIV. 

Some laid aside, like an old opera hat, I have seen the Landholders without a rap- 

Married, unmarried, and remarried : (this is I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 



732 



DOX JUAN, 



1823. 



The House of Commons turn'dto a tax-trap — 

I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen — 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's 

cap — [mean — 

I have seen a Congress * doing all that's 

I have seen some nations, like o'erloaded asses, 

Kick off their burthens — meaning the high 

classes — 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and 

land — [squeakers — 

I have seen the country gentlemen turn 

I have seen the people ridden o'er, like sand, 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt 

liquors [Bull; 

Exchanged for ** thin potations " by John 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 

LXXXVI. 

But car pe diem ^ Juan, carpe, carpe !-\ 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

** Life's a poor player " — then " play out the 
play, 
Ye villains!" and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be [say; 

Not what you see?ny but always what you see. 

LXXXVII. 
But how shall I relate, in other cantos, 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country? But I hold my hand — 



* [The Congress of Verona in 1822.) 
t Carpe diem, qukm minimum credula postero. — Hor. 



For I disdain to write an Atalantis :* 

But 'tis as well at once to understand 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIII. 
What Juan saw and underwent shall be 

My topic, with of course the due restriction 
Which is required by proper courtesy: 

And recollect the work is only fiction. 
And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of 
diction. 
Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 
This — when I speak, I don'^t hint^ \>\\\ speak out, 

LXXXIX, 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting 
countess; 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth, [is — 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages, — 

xc. 
Is yet within the unread events of time, [back 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a 
throne. 



^ [Written by Mrs. Manley, and full of scandal, &c.] 



CANTO THE TWELFTH. 
1823. 

I. I wonder people should be left alive: 

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that I But, since they are, that epoch is a bore: 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive; 
Of man; it is — I really scarce know what; | And as for other love, the illusion's o'er; 

But when we hover between fool and sage, i And money, that most pure imagination. 



And don't know justly what we would be at 

A period something like a printed page, 
Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we 
were; — 

II. 
Too old for youth — too young, at thirty-tive, 
T^ herd with boys or hoard will) good 
three -score — 



Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 

III. 
Oh Gold! Why call we misers miserable? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain- 
cable [small. 
Which holds fast other pleasures great and 
Vc who but see the saving man at table [all, 
And -;corn his temperate board, as none at 



1823. 



DON yUAN. 



m 



And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each 
cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much 
sicker; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss: 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 

And adding still a little through each cross 

(Which will come over things), beats love or 

liquor, \dross. 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's 
Oh Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper. 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapor. 

V. 

Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 

O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? 
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?* 
(That make old Europe's journals squeak 
and gibber all.) j 

Who keep the world, both Old and New, in; 
pain [all ? \ 

Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber | 
The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring? — 
Je.w Rothschild, and his fellow Christian 
Baring. 

VI. 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit; 

Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change; and even thy. silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 

Why call the miser miserable? as 
I caid before : the frugal life is his 

Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not 

Canonization for the self-same cause, [miss 
And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's aus- 
terities? [trial; — 

Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a 

Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 

VIII. 

He is your only poet; — passion, pure [plays, 
And sparkling on from heap to heap, dis- 

Possessed, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays 

Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; 
On him the diamond pours its brilliant 
blaze; [the dyes 

While the mild emerald's beam shades down 

Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 



IX. 



I The lands on either side are his: the ship 

From Ceylon, Inde, or fair Cathay, unloads 
jFor him the fragrant produce of each trip; 

Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 
j And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip: 
j His very cellars might be kings' abodes; 
i While he, despising every sensual call, 
i Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 



Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

An hospital, a church — and leave behind 
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face; 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind. 
Even with the very ore that makes them base; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation. 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 



But whether all, or each, or none of these 

May be the hoarder's principle of action. 
The fool will call such mania a disease: — 
What is his own ? Go — look at each trans- 
action, [ease 
Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more 
Than the mere plodding through each 
** vulgar fraction"? 
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! 
Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who's 
wiser? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus I how charming 
chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage 
shines. 
But) of fine unclipt gold, where duly rests 
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque 
confines. 
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp: — 
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 



The DescAmis^dos 



*' Love rules the camp, the court, the grove — 
for love [bard; 

Is heaven, and heaven is love:" so sings the 
Which it were rather difficult to prove 

(A thing with poetry in general hard). 
Perhaps there may be something in *'the grove,'* 
At least it rhymes to ** love;" but I'm pre- 
pared [rental) 
To doubt (no less than landlords of their 
If *< courts " and ** camps" be quite so sent; 
mental. 



734 



DON JUAN. 



i823. 



XIV. 

But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone: 

Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides; 

Without cash, camps were thin, and courts 

were none; [brides." 

Without cash, Malthus tells you, ** take no 

So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the 

tides: [honey 

And as for <*Heaven being Love," why not say 

Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 'tis Matrimony. 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever. 
Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt, 

After a sort; but somehow people never 
With the same thought the two words have 
help'd out: [ever; 

Love may exist luith marriage, and should 
And marriage also may exist without: 

But love sa7is banns is both a sin and shame, 

And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the " court," and " camp," and 
** grove" be not 

Recruited all with constant married men. 
Who never coveted their neighbor's lot, 

I say that line's a lapsus of the pen; — 
Strange too in my buon camerado, Scott, 

So celebrated for his morals, when 
My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
To me — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded. 
And that's enough; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed: 
And my success produced what I, in sooth. 

Cared most about; it need not now be 

pleaded — [truth, 

Whate'er it was, 'twas mine: I've paid, in 

Of late the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery — which some persons 
plead 

In .an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
In the faith of their procreative creed, 

Baptize posterity, or future clay — 
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To lean on for support in any way; 
Since odds are that posterity will know 
No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 



Why, I'm posterity — and so are you: [dred. 
And whom do we remember? Not a hun- 



Were every memory written down all true, 
The tenth or twentieth name would be but 
blunder'd; [few, 

Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a 
And 'gainst those few your annalists have 
thunder'd. 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century. 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek 
the lie.* 

XX. 

Good people all, of every degree, 

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth canto 'tis my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce: — the last set free 
The negroes, and is worth a million fighters; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the whites. 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he 
writes. 

XXI. 

I'm serious — so are all men upon paper: 
And why should I not form my speculation, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper? 
Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation, 

On constitutions and steamboats of vapor; 
While sages write against all procreation, 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That's noble! That's romantic! For my part, 
I think that ** Philo-genitiveness " is — 

(Now here's a word quite after my own heart, 
Though there's a shorter a good deal than 

If that politeness set it not apart; [this. 

But I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss) — 

I say, methinks that ** Philo-genitiveness " 

Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 



And now to business. — Oh my gentle Juan! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
Where every kind of mischiefs daily brewing. 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'Tis true that thy career is not a new one: 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life; but this is a new land. 
Which foreigners can never understand. 



* See Mitford's 6^rr^r^. "Gr^cbt. Ve rax.*' His g^eat 
pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange, 
after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
language, and he is perhaps the best (»f all modem histo- 
rians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair 
to state his virtues— learning, labor, research, wrath, and 
partiality. 1 call the latter virtues in a writer, because 
they make him write in earnest. 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



735 



XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 

I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 
Upon the rest of Europe's social state; 

But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 
Great Britain, which the muse may penetrate. 

All countries have their << lions," but in thee 

There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 



But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

'* Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being '< taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skater glided: 

When tired of play, he flirted without sin i ^ , . , . . •♦u 4. 

TUT-.i- r 1 ^ • . 1, 1. And one or two sad, separate wives, without 

With some of those fair creatures who have a r •.. ^ ii 4.1, • -^u • 

A +^„,.- 4.^ bloom upon their withering 



Himself, for nve, four, three, or two years' 
space, 
Would be much better taught beneath the 
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. [eye 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation. 
And then there was a general competition, 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 

It had been an affront, on this occasion, 
To talk of a subscription or petition: 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she-sages, 

Whose tale belongs to Hallam's Middle Ages^ 
XXXI. 



Themselves on innocent tantalization, [prided 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end may make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
That even the purest people may mistake 



A fruit to 
bough — 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and ** ouf — 
I For that's the phrase that settles all things 
i Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, [now; 
i And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 
I And I assure you, that like virgin honey 



Their way through virtue's primrose paths I Tastes their first season (mostly if they have 



of snows; 
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 

To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 
With the kind world's amen — ** Who would 
have thought it?" 

XXVII. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition [prise, 

(Which saw all western things with small sur- 
To the surprise of people of condition, 

Who think that novelties are butterflies, 
To be pursued as food for inanition). 

Her charming figure and romantic history. 

Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII, 
The women much divided — as is usual 

Amongst the sex, in little things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse 
you all — 

I have always liked you better than I state: 
Since I've grown moral, still I must accuse 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; [you all 
And now there was a general sensation 
Amongst you, about Leila's education. 



money). 

XXXII. 

How all the needy, honorable misters. 

Each out-at-elbowpeer, or desperate dandy. 

The watchful mothers and the careful sisters 

(Who, by the by, when clever, are more 

handy [glisters," 

At making matches, where ** 'tis gold that 

Than their >^^ relatives), like flies o'er candy. 

Buzz round ^^ the Fortune" with their busy 

battery, [tery. 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flat- 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation; 

Nay, married dames will now and then dis- 

Suchpure disinterestedness of passion, [cover 

I've known them court an heiress for their 

lover. 

** Tantsenel" Such the virtues of high station. 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet's 

** Dover!" [cares, 

While the poor rich wretch, object of these 

Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three 
dozen. 

^^^^- 'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 

In one point only were you settled — and And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 

You had reason: 'twas that a young child of; (Friends of the party), who begin accusals 
As beautiful as her own native land, [grace. Such as — *« Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have 

And far away, the last bud of her race, chosen 

However our friend Don Juan might command. Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 



73^ 



DON JUAN, 



1823. 



To his billets? H^y waltz with him? Why,| 
I pray, j 

Look^n last night, and yet say no to-day? | 

XXXV. j 

**\Vhy? — Why? — Besides, Fred really was' 
attached; [out:! 

'Twas not her fortune — he has enough with- 
The time will come she'll wish that she had! 
snatch'd I 

So good an opportunity, no doubt: — 
Hut the old marchioness some plan had 
hatch'd, 
As rU tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: 
And, after all, poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 

Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives; 
And when at last the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or 
drives. 
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected. 
To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity; or fall 
(But here, perhaps, the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty's sure 

(If 'lis not vain examples to recall) [her, I 
To draw a high prize; now, howc'er he got 
See nought more strange in this than t'other 
lottery.* 

XXXVIII. 

I, for my part — (one <* modern instance" more, 
" True, 'tis a pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true"). 

Was chosen from out an amatory score, 

Aliicit my years were less discreet than few; 

But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I'll not gainsay the generous public's voice, 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse I 'tis always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast; 
For, like an aged aunt or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 



XL. 



♦This line may puzzle the commentators mor« than 
Ac present generation. 



But now I'm going to be immoral; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be: for I avow, [far 

That, till we see what's what, in fact, we're 

From much improvement with that virtuous 

plough [scar 

Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 
But first of little Leila we'll dispose; 

For, like a day -dawn she was young and 
Or like the old comparison of snows, [pure. 

Which are more pure than pleasant, to be 
Like many people everybody knows, [sure. 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 
(I wish that others would find out the same) ; 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand 

neuter; [blame: 

For silly wards will bring their guardians 

So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 

Consulting *' the Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — but had been very young: 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe; 
Although the world has such an evil tongue. 

That but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that's wrong: 

In fact, there's nothing makes me so much 
, As that abominable tittle-tattle, [grieve, 

Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover, I've remark'd (and I was once 

A slight observer, in a modest way). 
And so may every one, except a dunce, 

That ladies, in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray. 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue. 
By railing at the unknown and envied pas- 
sion, 
Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you. 
Or, what's still worse, to put you out of 
fashion, — Vi^^* 

The kinder veteran with kind words will court 
Entreating you to pause before you da&h on j 



DON yUAN, 



737 



Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they're stricter 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you'll find from many a family picture, 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show 

Of vestals, brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes, without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd 
about — [pretty? 

And who has not, if female, young and 
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd 
about: 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty: 
And several of her best bon-mots were 
hawk'd about. 
Then she was given to charity and pity; 
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIII. 

rifigh in high circles, gentle in her own, 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever — which means every day — they'd 
An awkward inclination to go wrong, [shown 

The quantity of good she did's unknown; 
Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song : 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her, which increased. 

XLLX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her. 
Because she thought him a good heart at 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; [bottom ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got 

him, [whither: 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew 
Though this might ruin others, it did not ///w. 

At least entirely; for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth to be surprised at any. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; 

For when they happen at a riper age. 
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth. 

And wonder Providence is not more sage: 
Adversity is the first path to truth : [rage. 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty. 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so 
weighty. 

LI. 

iiow far it profits is another matter. — 
Our hero gladly saw his little charge 



; Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter> 
! Being long married, and thus set at large. 
Had left all the accomplishments she taught 
her, [barge. 

To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's 
To the next comer; or — as it will tell 
More Muse-like — say like Cytherea's shell. 

LII. 
I call such things transmission; for there is 

A floating balance of accomplishment. 
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
: According as their minds or backs are bent. 
I Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the 

Of metaphysics; others are content [abyss 
With music; the most moderate shine as wits; 
While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIII. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords. 

With regular descent, in these our days. 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards: 
New vestals claim men's eyes, with the 
same praise 
Of ** elegant," et cceteray in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on 
matches. 

Liv. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 

That, from the first of cantos up to this, 
I've not begun what we have to go through. 

The first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; 

And, when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin [ing: 
About what's call'd success, or not succeed- 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain 
they've chosen: 
'Tis a "great moral lesson" they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off", about two dozen 
Cantos would do; but, at Apollo's pleading, 

If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts. 
Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, 

Although the highest: but,as swords have hilts. 
By which their power of mischief is increased. 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, [east, 
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or 

Must still obey the high — which is their handle. 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing 
candle. 

47 



738 



DON JUAN, 



1823. 



LVii. jBiit not the less for this to be depreciated: 

He had many friends who had many wives, > It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 
and was iThe show of virtue even in the vitiated — 

Weil look'd upon by both to that extent | It adds an outward grace unto their car- 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass. | riagc — 

It does nor good nor harm; being merely ' But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 



meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent: 

And what with masquerades, and fetes, and 

balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 

A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part t"> play: 

For good society is but a game, 

** The royal game of goose," as I n ay say. 

Where everybody has some separate ai.^i, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 
I don't mean this as general, but particular 

Examples may be found of such pursuits; 
Though several also keep their perpendicular, 

Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 
Yet many have a method more reticular — 

**Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes; 
For talk six times with the same single lady, 
And you may get the wedding dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you'll have a letter trom the mother. 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd : 

Perhaps you'll have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What** your intentions are." — One way 



other, 



Couleur de rose^ who's neither white nor scarlet. 

LXIII. 
Sucli is our cold coquette, who can't say **No," 
And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on 
and offing — 
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck'd with an in- 
ward scoffing. 
This works a world of sentimental woe. 

And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; 
But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 
Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 
i LXIV. 

I'* Ye gods, I grow a talker!" Let us prate 
i The next of perils, though I place it slernesif 
I Is when, without regard to *' church or state," 
I A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
j Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 
(Such, early traveller! is the truth thoulearn- 
est) — 
But in old England, when a young bride errs, 
Poor thing, Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 

LXV. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the same 

ages [awes it. 

Can't form a friendship, but the world o'er- 

Then there's the vulgar trick of those d— d 

damages! [it! — 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause 

Forms a sad climax to romantic homages: 



It seems the virgin's heart expects your 
And between pity for her case and yours. 
You'll add to Matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 
I've known a dozen weddings made even thus. 
And some of them high names: I have also 
known 
Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they never dream'd to 
have shown — 
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXII. 
There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 

A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 



["^"^'i Besides those soothing speeches (jf the plead- 



And evidences, which regale all readers, [ers, 

LXVI. 
But they who blunder thus are raw beginners: 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sin- 
ners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy. 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste; 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a meie novice, had one safeguard more; 

For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word suA 
I meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before. 



IS23. 



DON JUAN. 



759 



That he was not in heart so very weak : — I 

meant [shore 

But this much, and no sneer against the 

Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer 
stockings, [knockings. 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes ro- 
mantic, [Passion, 

Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for 
And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 

Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 

Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation: 
Besides (alas! his taste — forgive and pity) 
At first, he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 
I say, zX first — for he found out, at last, 

But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 

Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 
A further proof we should not judge in haste: 

Yet inexperience could not be his bar [fess. 
To taste: — The truth is, if men would con- 
That novelties please less than they impj-ess, 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or 
Niger, 

To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like **bos 
piger;" 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there. 

No doubt, I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white; 

But I suspect, in fact, that white is black. 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You'll 
attack. 
Perhaps, this new position — but I'm right; 

Or, if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'en aback: — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I'm relapsing into metaphysics. 

That labyrinth whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics. 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying 
flame: 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 



Compared with those of our pure pearls of 

price, 
Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIIl. 
Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 

Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — 
Not that there's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 

Like Russians running from hot baths to 

snows* [cious: 

Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vi- 
They warm into a scrape, but keep, of course, 
As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 
But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it, as a foe would take a city; 
But once there (if you doubt this, pr'ythee try), 
She keeps it for you, like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb. 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning. 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning: 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warble 
Those bravuras (which I still am learning* 

To like, though I have been seven years in 
Italy, [prettily) : 

And have, or had, an ear that served me 

LXXVI. 
She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 
Which takes so much — to give the devil his 
due; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile. 
Nor settles all things in one interview 

(A thing approved, as saving time and toil) : — 
But though the soil may give you time and 
Well cultivated, it will render double, [trouble, 

LXXVII. 

And if, in fact, she takes a grande passion, 
It is a very serious thing indeed: 

Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice, or fashion, 
Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 

The pride of a mere child with a new sash on. 
Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed: 

But the tenth instance will be a tornado, [do. 

For there's no saying what they will or may 

* The Russians, as is well known, run out from their 
hot baths to plunge into the Neva ; a pleasant practical 
antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 



74-^ 



Do.y yuAX. 



1823. 



LXXVIII. I 

The reason's obvious: if there's an ecla^t 

They lose their caste at once, as do thej 
And when the delicacies of the law [Parias; 

Have fill'd the papers with their comments 
Society, that china without flaw, [various, 

(The hypocrite!) will banish them, like| 
To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt; [Marius, | 
For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's **Sin no more. 

And be thy sins forgiven;" — but, upon this, 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an opener door 

For her return to Virtue — as they call 

That lady who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it. 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less, in fact, to mind it. 
And care but for discoveries, and not deeds; 

And as for chastity, you'll never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 

But aggravate the crime you've not prevented, 

By rendering desperate these who had else 
repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
Upon the moral lessons of mankind: 

Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 
A lady altogether to his mind. 

A little blase — 'tis not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind; 

And, though not vainer from his past success. 

No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He also had been busy, seeing sights — 

The Parliament and all the other houses; 
I lad sat beneath the gallery at nights. 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not 
rouses) 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights. 
Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull* 
browses: 
lie had also stood, at times, behind the throne; 
But Grey f was not arrived, and Chatham:]: 
gone. 



♦ For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
Polar Region and native country of the Aurora Bore- 
alis, see Parry's Voyage in Search 0/ a North-West 
Passaic. 

tCharles, second Earl Grey, succeeded to the title 
in 1807. 

\ The first Lord Chatham died May, 1778. 



LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session. 
That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 

Though despots know it not till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'Tis not mere splendor makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A Prince, the prince of princes, at the time, 

With fascination in his very bow, 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 
He had then the grace, too, rare in every 

Of being without alloy of fop or beau, [clime, 

A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society; and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire: — 
The talent and good humor he display'd. 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation. 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, 
and why. 

Is not to be put hastily together; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know whether 
I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings, till they wither; 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.* 

LXXX VII. a 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction ^ 

Ends. When the body of the book's begun. 
You'll find it of a different construction [done: 

From what some people say 'twill be, when 
The plan at present's simply in concoction. 

I can't oblige you, reader, to read on: 
That's your affair, not mine: a real spirit [it. 
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles. 

Remember, reader! you have had before ■ 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles, jl 

That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, -* 



* A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a 
statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I be- 
lieve, a river in his pocket, with various other similar 
devices. But Alexander is gone, and Athos remains, 
I trust ere long to look over a nation of freemen. 



i823« 



DON JUAN, 



741 



Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows 
what else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 
But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 
Will turn upon ** political economy." 

LXXXIX. 
That is your present theme for popularity: 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 



It grows an act of public charity 

To show the people the ^)est way to break. 
My plaft (but I, if but for singularity. 

Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
Meantime, read all the national-debt sinkers. 
And tell me what you think of our great 
thinkers. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. 



1823. 



I NOW mean to be serious; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too 
serious 

A jest at Vice, by Virtue's call'd a crime. 
And critically held as deleterious; 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime. 
Although, when long, a little apt to weary us : 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and 
solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees, by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will. 
And beauteous even where beauties most 
abound. 
In Britain — which, of course, true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 
I'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue; 

I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the 
best; 
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue 

Is no great matter, so 'tis in request; 
'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 
The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair; and no man, 
Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain 
woman. 

IV. 

And, after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd, for days 

More quiet, when our moon's no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 

Also because the figure and tlie face 

Hint that 'tis time to give the younger place. 



1 1 know that some would fain postpone this era, 
j Reluctant, as all placemen, to resign 
I Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, 
I For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line; 
iBut then they have their claret and Madeira, 
I To irrigate the dryness of decline; 
And county meetings and the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 
And is there not religion and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the 
"Nation"? 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm? 

The landed and the money'd speculation? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm. 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination? 
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure: 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 
Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 

Right honestly, ** he liked an honest 
hater!"* — 
The only truth that yet has been confest 

Within these latest thousand years or later. 
Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest: — 

For my part, I am but a mere spectator; 
And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
Much in the mood of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess; 

Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer some- 
It is because I cannot well do less, [times, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress [crimes. 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 



* "Sir, I like a good hater." — See the Li/e cf Dr. 
Johnson, &c. 



742 



DON JUAN. 



1823 



! 

Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad 

Because it makes us smile: his hero's right, 
And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad 

His only object; and gainst odds to fight, 
His guerdon: 'tis his virtue makes him mad! 

But his adventures form a sorry sight; — 
A sorrier still is the great moral taught, 
By that real epic, unto all who have thought, 

X. 
Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 
Opposing singly the united strong, [tive: — 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless na- 
Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, 

Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 
A jest, a riddle, Fame through thick and thin 

sought ! 
And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away: 

A single laugh demolished the right arm 
Of his own country: — seldom, since that day, 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance 
could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such 
That all their glory, as a composition, [harm. 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 
I'm ** at my oldlunes " — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met. 

Although she was not evil, nor meant ill; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 
And caught them; — what do they not catch 

methinks? 
But I'm not Oedipus, and Life's a Sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution: ** Davus sum T'^ 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, 

Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that's fair; 
Whose charms made all men speak, and 
women dumb: 

The last's a miracle, and such was reckon'd; 

And since that time there has not been a second. 
XIV. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation. 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 

* [Davus sum, non CEdipus. — Ter.] 



Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, [teh 

Proud of himself and her: the world could 

Nought against either, and both seem'd se- 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. [cure — 

XV. 
It chanced some diplomatical relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan, in their mutual stations, 
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor 
caught [tience. 

By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and pa- 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 
And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
Reserve and pride could make him, and full 
slow 
In judging men, when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 
Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 
And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 
His friendships, therefore, and no less aver- 
sions, [but more 
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd 
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went 
before. [tertians. 
His feelings had not those strange fits, like 
Of common likings, which make some de- 
plore [still 
What they should laugh at — the mere ague 
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 
XVIII. 

'* 'Tis not in mortals to command success, [it;* 

But i/o you more, Sempronius — ^^«'/deserve 
And, take my word, you won't have any less. 

Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 

Give gently way, when there's too great a 

press; [it; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve 
For, like a racer or a boxer, training, [ing. 
'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without pain- 

XIX. 
Lord Henry, also, liked to be superior. 

As most men do, the little or the great: 
The very lowest find out an inferior, 

At least they think so, to exert their state 
Upon: for there are very few things wearier 

Than solitary Pride's oppresive weight, 
Which mortals generously would divide, 
By bidding others carry while they ride. 



1823. 



DON JUAiW 



745 



XX. 

In birtk, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel, 

And, as he thought, in country much the 

same — h^iill* | 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free ' 
At which all modern nations vainly aim; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater, j 

So that few members kept the House up later. 

XXI. I 

These were advantages; and then he thought — -j 

It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had 

caught [ister. 

Court mysteries, having been himself a min- 

He liked to teach that which he had been 

taught, * [a stir; 

And greatly shone whenever there had been 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man^ 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 
He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; 
^ He almost honored him for his docility. 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with 
suavity. 
Or contradicted with but proud humility; 
He knew the world, and would not see de- 
pravity [fertility, 
In faults which sometimes show the soil's 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 



And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places; 

"Where people always did as they were bid. 
Or did what they should not with foreign 
graces. 

Of coursers, also, spake they: Henry rid 
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the 
races; 

And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 

For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
As in freemasonry a higher brother. 

Upon his talent Henry had no doubts; 

His manners show'd him sprung from a 
high mother: 

And all men like to show their hospitality 

To him whose breeding matches with his 
quality. 



At Blank-Blank Square : — for we will break 
no squares, [ous, 

By naming streets : since men are so censori- 
And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 

Reaping allusions private and inglorious. 
Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs. 

Which were, or are, or are to be, notorious, 
That therefore do I previously declare, 
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank 
Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin * another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 

Which doth not shake some very splendid 

house [treason — 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: 

Such I might stumble over unawares. 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

'Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadillos are unknown; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone; 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, 

until I [shown, 

Find one where nothing naughty can be 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: 

Such are but I have lost the London Chart. 

XXVIII. 
At Henry's mansion, then, in Blank-Blank 
Square, 
Was Juan a recherch^^ welcome guest. 
As many other noble scions were; [crest; 

And some who had but talent for their 
Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed's the 
best 
Recommendation : and to be well drest 
Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXIX. 

And since '* there's safety in a multitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon hath said. 

Or some one for him, in some sage, grave 
mood; — 
Indeed, we see the daily proof display'd. 

In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud. 
Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 

Which is the only course, that we can guess, 

Of Britain's present wealth and happiness: 



" With everything that pretty bin. 
My lady sweet, arise." — Shakspeare, 



744 



I^OX JCAX. 



182^ 



XXX. I 

But as " there's safety " grafted in the number 

** Of counsellors," for men — thus for the sex, 

A large acquaintance lets not \'irtue slumber; 

Or, should it shake, the choice will more' 

Variety itself will more encumber, [perplex — 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against 

wrecks. [some's 

And thus with womcR: howsoe'er it shocks 

Self-love, there's sa/ety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little 
To virtue proper or good education. [merit 

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 
Which judged mankind at their due estimation; 

And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 
Secure of admiration, its impression 
Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 
To all she was polite, without parade; 

To some she sliow'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid : — 

A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, 
To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious; 
XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 

A dull and desolate appendage, (^aze 
Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men. 

Who were, or are, the puppet-shows of praise. 
The praise of persecution. Gaze again 

On the most favor'd, and, amidst the blaze 
Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd. 
What can ye recognize? — a gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 
There also was, of course, in Adeline, 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 
Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 

Of anything which nature would express; 
Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine, — 

At least his manner suffers not to guess. 
That anything he views can greatly please. 
Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chi- 
nese, 

XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace; his ** X'il admirarV^ 
Was what hecall'd the *'Artof Happiness;" 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
And have not yet attain'd to much success: 

However, 'tis expedient to be wary: 

Indifference, certes, don'i produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm, in good society, 

Were nothing l)ut a miJial inebriety. 



XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent; for 

[Xovj for a commonplace I)beneath the snow, 
As a volcan© holds the lava more 

Within — et ccetera. Shall I go on? — Nol 
I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, • 

So let the often-used volcano go. 
Poor thing! How frequently by me and others, 
It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite 
smothers I 

XXXVll. 
ril have another figure in a trice — 

What say you to a bottle of champagne? 
Frozen into a very vinous ice. 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain 
Yet in the very centre, past all price, 

About a liquid glassful will remain; 
And this is "Stronger than the strongest grape 
Could e'er express in its expanded shape; 

XXXVIII. 
'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 

And such are many — though I only meant her 
From whom I may deduce these moral lessons. 

On which the Muse has always sought to 
enter; 
And your cold people are beyond all price. 
When once you've broken their confounded ice. 

XXXIX. 

But, after all, they are a North-west Passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), 
I Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; 
For if the Pole's not open, but all frost 
(A chance still), 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 

[ With quiet cruising o'er the ocean, woman; 

While those who are not beginners should 

have sense [mon 

Enough to make for port, ere time shall sum- 

With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense. 

The dreary ^^fuirmis^^ of all things human, 

Must be declined, while life's thin thread's 

spun out 
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

I XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted: its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 
jThe workl upon ihe whole is worth the asser- 
tion 
i (if l)ut for comfortj that all things are kind: 



1823. 



DON yVAX, 



745 



\l 



And that same devilish doctrine of the Per- 'Away! away! 
sian,* 
Of the two principles, but leaves feehind 
As many doubts as any other doctrine 
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 



Fresh horses!" are the word, 

And changed as quickly as hearts after 

marriage: [stored: 



XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July, 

To recommence in August — now was done. 

'Tis the postilion's paradise: wheels fly: 
On roads, east, south, north, west, there is 
a run. 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy? 
Man's pity's for himself, or for his son. 

Always premising that said son, at college, 



The obsequious landlord hath the change re- 

The postboys have no reason to disparage 
Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss 

hence, 
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 



XLVII, 

and the valet 



mounts the 



'Tis granted; 
dickey — 

That gentleman of lords and gentlemen; 
Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, [pen 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's 



Has not contracted much more debt than ^ Can paint — ** Cost viaggino i JRicchi P^ 



knowledge. 



XLIII. 



The London winter's ended in July — 
Sometimes a little later. I don't err 

In this: whatever other blunders lie 
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 

My Muse a glass of weatherology; 
For Parliament is our barometer: 

Let Radicals its other Acts attack; 

Its sessions form our onlv almanac. 



(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
If but to show I've travell'd; and what's travel, 
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 



XLVIII. 
The London winter and the country summer 

Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 
When nature wears the gown that doth be- 
come her. 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
XLiv. Listening debates not very wise or witty, 

___- . . , ., Ere patriots their true country can remem- 

When Its quicksilver's down at zero — lo! I^ei-. [tember 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! But there's no shooting (save grouse) till Sep- 
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho; j ^ ^^ ' 

And happiest they who horses can engage; 
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten I ^'^5.^^^^ ^^^ "^y ^\^^^^- '^^^^^^H^'^^ S^ne; 
Row 



Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; 
And tradesmen, with long bills, and longer 

faces. 
Sigh as the postboys fasten on the traces. 



XLV. 



The twice two thousand, for whom earth 
' was made. 

Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests, or more; before whom groan 
' As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
I Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
ilts quantity is but condensed to quality. 
L. 

To the Greek kalends of another session. Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
Alas! to them of ready cash bereft. Departed, like the rest of their compeers, 

What hope remains? Oi hope the full pos-'The peerage, to a mansion very fine; 
A generous draft, conceded as a gift, [session,! The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
At a long date — till they can get a fresh None than themselves could boast a longer line, 



They and their bills, ** Arcadians both, "f are' 
left 



Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; 
Also the solace of an overcharge. 



XLV I. 



But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord. 
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 



f * Zoroaster.] 
" Arcades Ambo.*' 



Where time through heroes and through 
beauties steers; 
And oaks as olden as their pedigree. 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 
A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure; such is modern fame: 
'Tis pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same; 



746 DOX JUAN. 182 y. 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally- 
cold, [claim — The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The Morning Post was foremost, to pro- The branching stag swept down with all his 
** Departure for his country seat, to-day, | herd, 
Lord H. Amundeville, and Lady A. To quaff a brook which murmur'd lik« a bird.. 



** We understand the splendid host intends 

To cHtertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends; 
'Midst whom, we heard from sources quite 
correct, [spends; 

The Duke of D the shooting season 

many more 



Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed^ 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the caliper waters spread 1 

Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 



With many more by rank and fashion The woods sloped downwards to its brink, ^ 
Also a foreigner of high condition, [deck'd, and stood 

The envoy of the secret Russian mission." With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LIII. LVIII. 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Us outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Posi ? \ Sparkling with foam, until, again subsiding, 

(Whose articles are like the '* Thirty-nine," jits shriller echoes— like an infant made 
Which those most swear to who believe themj Quiet— sank into softer ripples, gliding 

most) — [shine, ! Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd, [hiding 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to| Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, Its windings through the woods: now clear, , 
With those who, Pope says, ** greatly dar-l now blue, 

ing, dine." — [edj According as the skies their shadows threw. 

'Tis odd, but true — last war, the news abound- i j j^ 

More with these dinners than the kill'd or. , . r i ^ 1 • 

wounded i"^ glorious remnant of the Lrothic pile 

' , j,^ i (While yet the church was Rome's) stood 

* ' half apart, [aisle. 

^!5L^:JJ. Thursday there was a grand 'i^^ ^ g,^^^ ^,^1,^ ^j^i^h once screen'd many an 

i"^"^^' These last had disappear'd — a loss to art: 

!^?^fl!« "v?!l^^'^ '^^^^ ^^^^ y^^ frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
ni^ o« ^r^n r^y^r c- ^j^(j klndlcd fceliugs in the roughest heart. 



dinner; 
Present, Lords A. B. C 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's 
winner: 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column; date, "Falmouth. There has late- 
ly been here 
The slap-dash regimen*^, so well known to 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : [fame, 
The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazetted 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair — 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Still older mansion — of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 

Few specimens yet left us can compare 
Withal; it lies perhaps a little low. 

Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind. 

To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVI. 

"It stood cmbosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid 

Stood, like Caractacus, in act to rally [oak 
His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thun- 
der- stroke; 



Which mourn'd the power of time or tempest's 
In gazing on that venerable arch. [march, 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, [stone; . 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in 1 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 

But in the war which struck Charles from . 
his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother of the (xod-born Child, 

With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, , 
Spared by some chance, when all beside 
was spoil'd: 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild; 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 



i833. 



DON JUAN. 



747 



A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once 

could enter, [wings. 

Streaming from off the sun, like seraph's 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and 
oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie with their hallelujahs, quench'd like fire. 



LXVII. 
Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers 
join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
Might shock a connoisseur; but, when com- 
bined, 
P'orm'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 

At least of those whose eyes are in their 
We gaze upon a giant, for his stature; [hearts. 
Nor judge, at first, if all be true to nature. 



But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of, 
heaven. 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, which 
Is musical — a dying accent, driven [then 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks 
again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo, given 

Back to the night-wind by the waterfall. 

And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape or form. 
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the 
power [warm 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this grey ruin with a voice to charm. 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: 

The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such 

The fact: — I've heard it — once'' perhaps too 
much. 

LXV. 

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd. 
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings 
quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths of 
granite made. 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : [stable. 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene: ! 

The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 1 



I Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preserva- 
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls, [tion ; 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station ; 
And countesses, mature in robes and pearls; 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, [freely. 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them 

LXIX. 

Judges in very formidable ermine 

Were there, with brows that did not much 

invite [determine 

The accused to think their lordships would 

His cause by leaning much from might to 

right: 

Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-General, awful to the sight, [us) 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp 
Of the ** Star Chamber " than of ** Habeas 
Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of the old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead: 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordiings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 

Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the 

steed; [stood. 

And here and there some stern high patriot 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 



But, ever and anon, to soothe your vision. 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories. 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's :* 

Here danced Albano's boys; and here the sea 

shone [stories 

In Vernet's ocean-lights: and there the 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

* Salvator Rosa. 



74 S 



DON JUAN. 



182: 



LXXII. 
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain [light, 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite: 
But, lo, a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
His bell-raouth'd goblet makes me feci quite 
Danishf [Rhenish. 

Or Dutch, with thirst— what, hoi a flask of 

LXXIii. 
Oh, reader! if that thou canst read, — and know 

*Tis not enough to spell, or even to read. 
To constitute a reader: there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
Firstly, begin with the beginning — (though 

That clause is hard) ; and, secondly, proceed; 
Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sin-; 
ning I 

Ir this sort, end at la3t with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late; 

While I, without remorse of rhyme or fear, 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. I 
That poets were so from their earliest date, 1 

By Homer's ** catalogue of ships" is clear;; 

But a mere modern must be moderate — 1 

I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. | 

LXXV. I 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came | 

The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. i 
The corn is cut, the manor full of game; ' 

The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 
In russet jacket; — lynx-like is his aim; . 

Full grows his bags, and wondei/«/ his feats. ' 

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant 

pheasants! [ants.i 

And ah, ye poachers! — 'tis no sport for peas-' 

LXXVI. I 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines I 

^ Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 

The red grape in the sunny lands of song, j 
Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; 

The claret light, and the Madeira strong. I 
If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her 
The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
Which makes the southern autumn's day ap- 

As if 'twould to a second spring resign [pear 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 



t If 1 err not, 
Xo'^vktt <.f nations " 



* Vour Dane." is one of 1 i-o'^ cat-. 
c.vquisit- iij their drink .1^." 



Of inn-door comforts still she hath a mine — 
' The sea-coal fires, the **earliest of theyearr'- 
Without doors,too,she may compete in mellow 
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — shehatl 

wSo animated, that it might lure a [the chast 
Saint from his beads to join the jocund race 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains o; 
Dura,* 
And wear the Melton jacket for a space; 

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 

Preserve of bores who ought to be made game. . 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests assembled at the Abbey 
; Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 
I The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, the Countess 
Crabby; 

The Ladies Scilly, Busey;— Miss Eclat, 
Miss Bombazeen,Miss Macstay,Miss O'Tabby, 

And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; 
Also the Honorable Mrs. Sleep, [sheep; 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank; 

At once the *' lie " and the elite of crowds, 
Who pass like water filtered in a tank. 

All purged and pious from their native 
clouds; 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The passee and the past; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety — 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station; 

And so that no explosion cry, *< Aroint 
Thee, witch I " or each Medea has her Jason : 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

^'Omne tulitpuncium, quae viiscuit utile dulciJ'* 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right. 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. 

I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie. 

Also a so-so matron boldly fight [tery; 

Her way back to the world, by dintof plot- 

And shine the very Siria of the sjjheres. 

Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

* In Assyria. 



bOI^ JUAN. 



749 



LXXXIII. 
I have seen more than I'll say; — but we will 

How our villeggiatura will get on. [see 

The party might consist of thirty-three, 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 

Ikit ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
l>y way of sprinkling, scattered amongst these, 
There were also some Irish absentees. 



There was ParoUes, too, the legal bully, 
' Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who 
had newly 
Come out, and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star; 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free- 
thinker; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — 
duke, [peers 

'*^y, every inch a " duke; there were twelve 
Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in 
look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty 
dears! 
Ail song and sentiment, whose hearts were set 
Less on a convent than a coronet; 

LXXXVI. 

There were four Honorable Misters, whose 
Honor was more before their names than 
after : 
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd 
to waft here. 
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laugh- 
ter, [please — 
Because — such was his magic power to 
The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his re- 
partees. 

LXXXVII. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; 

Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race winner. 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 



LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guards- 
man; 
And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician and no less a swordsman, ■ 
Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he 
kiird. [Hardsman, 

There was the waggish Welsh judge, Jefferies 

In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
That, when a culprit came for cor>demnation,. 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 
LXXXIX. 

Good company's a chess-board — there are 
kings, [world's a game; 

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns: the 
Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the 
same. 
My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings. 
Not stings, and flits through ether without 
aim, 
Alighting rarely; — were she but a hornet, 
Perhaps there might be vices which would 
mourn it. 

xc. 
I had forgotten — but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session. 
Who had deliver'd well a very set [gression 
Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trans- 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet [pression ; 
W^ith his debut ^ which made a strong im- 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
*' The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

xci. 
Proud of his ** Hear hims!" proud, too, af his 
And lost virginity of oratory, [vote 

Proud of his learning (iust enough to quote), 
! He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: 
With memory excellent to get by rote, 

W^ith wit to hatch a pun or tell a story. 
Graced with some merit and with more effront- 
ery, [country. 
** His country's pride," he came down to the 

XCII. 
There also were two wits by acclamation. 
Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow* from 
the Tweed, 
Both lawyers, and both men of education; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd 
Longbow was rich in an imagination [breed : 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed. 
But sometimes stumbling over a potato — 
While Strongbow's best things might have 
come from Cato. 

[* Curran and Elrskinc] 



750 



z>ay yuAX. 



1823 



XCIII. 
Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; 

But Longbow wild as an /Eolian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim 
accord, 
And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a 
word : [carp : 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 

If all these seem a heterogeneous mass 

To be assembled at a country seat. 
Yet think, a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of Comedy are gone, alas. 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Mo- 
Society is smoothM to that excess, [Here's bite; 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

XCV. 
Our ridicules are kept in the background — 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull: 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 
Professional: and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit: for though your fools abound, 
They're barren, and not worth the pains to 
Society is now one polish'd horde, [pull. 

Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and 
Bored. 

xcvi. 
But from being farmers we turn gleaners, 
gleaning [truth; 

The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of 
And, gentle reader! when you gather mean-; 
ing, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 
Further I'd quote, but Scripture intei-vening 
Forbids, A great impression in my youth 
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 
** That Scriptures out of church are blasphe- 
mies."* 

XCVII. 

But what we can, we glean in this vile age 

Of chaff, although our gleanings be not 

grist, I 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 1 

Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, | 

Who, in his common-place book, had a page 

Prepared each morn for evenings. *'List,! 

oh, list!"— j 

'^ " Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was' 
blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church." Thisi 
dogma was broached to her husband — the best Chris- 
tian in any book. %^t.Jos>'Ph Andrews, in the latter 
chapters. 



** Alas, poor ghost!" — What unexpected woei 
Await those who have studied their bon mots ! 



Firstly, they must allure the conversation. 

By many windings, to their clever clench; 
And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 

Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch^ 
But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 

If possible; and thirdly, never flinch ^ 

When some smart talker puts them to the test. 
But seize the last word, which no doubt's the 
best. 

XCIX. 
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; 
The party we have touch'd on were the 
guests! 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon raguuts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — . 
wSince Eve ate apples, much depends on 
dinner. 

C. 

Witness the lands which **flow'dwith milk 
and honey," 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites: 
To this we have added since the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer 

We tire of mistresses and parasites ; [sunny : 

But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah, who would lose 

thee? [thee? 

When we no more can use, or even abuse, 



The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt: the young, because they liked the 
sport — 
The first thing boys like, after play and fruit: 
The middle-aged, to make the day more short; 
For ettnui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language : we retort 
The fact for wo'-ds, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep cannoi abate. 

CII. 

The elderly walk'd through the library, 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or sauntered through the garden piteously. 
And made upon the hot-house several 
strictures. 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 
Or in the morning papers read their lectures. 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Longing, at sixty, foi- the hour of six. 



182.^ 



DON JUAM, 



75i 



But none were gene : the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all 
were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear [known. 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his 
fast [repast. 

When, where, and how he chose for that 

CIV. 
The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they 
rode, 
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale, 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from 
abroad; [prevail, 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next 

And settled bonnets, by the newest code, 
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter. 
To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

cv. 
For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

T'he earth has nothing like a she-epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal. 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends. 

But, full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

cvi. 

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but «c? 

dice; — 

Save in the clubs, no man of honor plays; — 

Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice, 

And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting 

And angling, too, that solitary vice, [days; 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says: 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull 
it.* 



* It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst 
the novelists), to show their sympathy for innocent 
sports and old songs, teaches hew to sew up frogs, and 
break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to 
the art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest, and the 
stupidest of pratended sports. They may talk about the 
beauties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his 
dish of fish ; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off 
the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than 
all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on 
a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fish- \ 
ery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them ; even 1 
net- fishing, trawling, &c., are more humane and useful ; 
but angling ! No angler can be a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, deli- 
cate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any 
in the world—was an angler: true, he angled with 



CVII. 

When evening came the banquet and the wine; 

The conversazione; the duet. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine [yet). 

(My heart or head aches with the memory 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp, because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and 
arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance(though rarely on field days. 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze: 
Then there was small-talk ready when re- 
quired; 

Flirtation — but decorous; the mere praise 
Of charms that should or should not be ad- 
mired. 

The kunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again. 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 

cix. 
The politicians, in a nook apart, [spheres; 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the 
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art. 

To introduce a bon mot, head and ears. 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart: 

A moment's good thing may have cost them 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, [years 
And then, even then, some bore may make 
them lose it. 

ex. 
But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 

There now are no Squire Westerns,as of old; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like 

Tom Jones, 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour; [noon: 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's 

But in the country, ladies seek their bower 
A little earlier than the waning moon. 

Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 
May the I'osc call back its true color soon! 

Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 

And lower the price of rouge — at least some 
winters. 

painted flies, and would have beon incapable of the ex- 
travagances of 1. Wi:ltf'n.'* 

The above addition was made by a fn^nd in reading 
over the MS. — *' AudC rlr*ri-r J^6:f*eTn.'' I lea -e it 
to counterbalance my ova' crU^eL-v^iion. 



752 



oo.\ yiAy. 



1S23. 



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 



1823. 



VI. 



If from great nature's or our own abyss 

Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they 

miss — [P^^y- 

But then 'twould spoil much good philoso- 
One system eats anotlier up, and this 

Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; 
For when his pious consort gave him stones 
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 

And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 

After due search, your faith to any question? 
1. 00k back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the 
best one. 
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 
And yet what are your other evidences? 

III. 
For me, I know nought: nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn; and what know_yt?«. 
Except, perhaps, that you were born to die? 

And both may, after all, turn out untrue. 
An age may come, Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men 

weep; 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 

Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet 
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent 

The very suicide that pays his debt [clay! 
At once without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret). 
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath. 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

V. 
'Tis round him, near him, here, there, eveiy- 
where: [fear, 

And there's a courage which grows out of 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 

The worst to know it: — when the moun- 
tains rear [there 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a 

minute 
"Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 



'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with 
, terror, 

! Retire; but look into your past impression! 
i And you Mill find, though shuddering at the 
I mirror 

i Of your own thoughts, in all their self-con- 

The lurking bias, be it truth or error, [fession, 
To the unknown; a secret prepossession 

To plunge with all your fears — but where? 
You know not; 

And that's the reason why you do — or do not. 

VII. 

But what's this to the purpose? you will say: 
Gent, reader, nothing; a mere speculation, 

For which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way. 
Sometimes with^ and sometimes without 
occasion, 

I write what's uppermost, without delay: 
This narrative is not meant for narration; 

But a mere airy and fantastic basis. 

To build up common things with common- 
places. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know% that great Bacon 
saith, [wind blows;" 

** Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the 
And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 

Is poesy, according as the mind glows; 
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 

A shadow which the onward soul behind 
throws; 
And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise, 
But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before me — or behind; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind; — 

Of passions too I've proved enough to blame. 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind. 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; 
For I was rather famous in my time. 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 
I have brought this world about my ears, and 
eke 

The other: that's to say, the clergy — who 
I Upon my head have bid their thunders break, 

In pious libels by no means a few. 
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week. 

Tiring old readers, nor discevering new. 



1823 



DON JUAN. 



753 



I A sort of varnish over every fault, 

A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes; 
Factitious passion, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth mo- 
notony 
Of character, in those at least vho've got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade. 
They break their ranks, and gladly leave 
the drill; 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were; 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade. [still 
But when of the first sight you've had your 

It palls — at least it did so upon me, [fill, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed 

our gaming, [more; 

Drest, voted, shone, and, maybe, something 

With dandies dined; heard senators declaim- 
ing; 



In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 
And now because I feel it growing dull. 

XI. 
But ** why then publish?" There are no re- 
wards [weary. 

Of fame or profit, when the world grows 
I ask in turM, — Why do you play at cards? 

W^hy drmk? Why read? — To make some 
hour less dreary. 
It occupies me to turn back regards 

On what I've seen or ponder'd,sador cheery; 
And what I write, I cast upon the stream. 
To swim or sink — I've had at least my dream. 

XII. 
I think that, were I certam of success, 

I hardly could compose another line; 
So long I've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 'tis not easy to express. 

And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. [ing — 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choos- 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : \ 

She gathers a repertory of facts [tion, i Sa¥r7kesTo sadd"er husbands"chasteiy Umi^ngr 

Of course with some reserve and slight restric- \ There's little left but to be bored or bore. 

But mostly sings of human things and acts— witness those ci-devant jeunes Jiommes who 

stem [them. 



Seen beauties brought to market by the score, 



And that's one cause she meets with contra 
diction. 
For too much truth at first sight ne'er attracts; 
And vvere her object only what's call'd glory. 
With more ease too she'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there's variety; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration: 
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every 
station. 
If you had nought else, here's at least satiety. 

Both in performance and in preparation; I 
And though these lines should only line port-! 

manteaus. 
Trade will be all the better for these cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up, to fill the following sermon. 

Is one of which there's no description recent: 
The reason why is easy to determine; [ant. 

Although it seems both prominent and pleas- 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages. 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 
XV 1, 

With much to excite, there's little to exalt; 
Nothing that speaks to all men and all 
times; 



The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth 

XIX. 

I 'Tis said — indeed, a general complaint — 
I That no one has succeeded in describing 
The vionde exactly as they ought to paint: 

Some say that authors only snatch, by bribing 
The porter, some slight scandals strange and 
quaint. 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 
And that their books have but one style in 

common — 
My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true just now; for wTiters 
Are grown of the heau tnonde a part poten- 
tial: 
I've seen them balance even the scale with 
fighters, 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 
Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 
Of what they deem themselves most conse- 
quential. 
The real portrait of the highest tribe? 
'Tis that, in fact, there's little to descrilie. 

XXI. 

^^Haudignara loquor;^^ these are Ntiga\, ^' qua- 
1 Pars parva///?," but still art and pai t. \rum 

43 



75^- 



Doy yuAX. 



1823. 



Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, ['em 

Than these things; and, besides, I wish to spare 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

** Vetabo Cereris sacrum qtii viilgarit " — * [it. 

Which means that vulgar people must not share 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of free- 
masons; 
Which bears the same relation to the real. 

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's 
The grand arcanum's not for men to see all; 

My music has some mystic diapasons: 
And there is much which could not be appre- 
In any manner by the uninitiated. [ciated 

XXIII. 
Alas! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 

The world (as, since that history, less polite 
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held). 

Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd, 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when 
right, 
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, 
Plave shaving too entailed upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which, in the aggregate. 

May average, on the whole, the parturition; 
But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 
Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education. 
But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 

XXV. 
All this were very well, and can't be better; 

But even this is difficult. Heaven knows, 
So many troubles from her birth beset her. 

Such small distinction between friends and 
foes. 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter. 

That but ask any woman if she'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male? a school -boy or a queen? 
XXVI. 

*< Petticoat influence" is a great reproach. 
Which even those who obey would fain be 
thought 
To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; 
But since beneath it, upon earth, we're 
brought. 
By various joltings of life's hackney coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 



* [Hor. Carm. 1. ill, od. 2. J 



A garment of a mystical sublimity, 
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 
XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 
Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 

And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 

A loving letter with a mystic sea], 
A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 
Before a petticoat and peeping ankle? 

XXVIII. 

And when, upon a silent, sullen day. 

With a sirocco, for example, blowing, 
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray. 

And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing. 
And the sky shows that very ancient grey. 

The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 
'Tis pleasant, if then anything is pleasant. 
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 
W^e left our heroes and our heroines [mate. 

In that fair clime which don't depend on cli- 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs. 

Though certainly more diflicult to rhyme at. 

Because the sun, and stars, and aught that 

shines, [at. 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 

XXX. 
An in-door life is less poetical; [and sleet. 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral: 

But, be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small. 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away, like spirit upon matter, [water. 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and 
XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 
Was all things unto people of all sorts. 

And lived contentedly, without complaints. 
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain sJie men. 

XXXII. 
A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange: 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having, in exchange, 
Some pleasant jesting at the awkward 
stranger: 



1821 



DON yUAN, 



755 



But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger; 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause, 

He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post 

and rail, [/<^«5", 

And never cranedy^ and made but few faux 

And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail, 
lie broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 

Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail : 
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and 

then, 
And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

xxxiv. 
But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse: the 
Marvell'd at merit of another nation; [squires 
The boors cried, *' Dang it, who'd have 
thought it?" — Sires, 
The Nestors of the sporting generation, 

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires : 
The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
ATid rated him almost a whipper-in. 

xxxv. 
Such were his trophies — not of spear and 
shield, [brushes; 

But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' 
\^et I must own — although in this I yield 

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes — 

He thought at heart, like courtly Chesterfield, 

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, 

bushes, [price. 

And what not, though he rode beyond all 

Ask'd, next day, ** if men ever hunted tivice.'''''^ 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 
To early risers after a long chase, 

Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
December's drowsy day to his dull race — 

A quality agreeable to woman. 

When her soft, liquid words run on apace. 

Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner — 

He did not fall asleep just after dinner, 

* Craning. — " To crane " is, or was, an expression 
used to denote a gentleman stretching out his neck over 
a hedge " to look before he leaped," — a pause in his 
" vaulting ambition " which in the field doth occasion 
some delay and execration in those who may be immedi- 
ately behind the equestrian sceptic. " Sir, if you don't 
choose to take the lead, let me," was a phrase which 
generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good pur- 
pose : for though the " horse and rider " might fall, 
they made a gap, through which, and over him and his 
steed, the field might follow. 

t See his Letters to his Son. 



XXXVII. 
But, light and airy, «tood on the alert, 

And shone in the best part of dialogue. 
By humoring always what they might assert, 

And listening to the topics most in vogue: 
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert: 

And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue! 
He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer : — 
In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 
And then he danced — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of pantomime — he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable: 

He danced without theatrical pretence; 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drilled nymphs, but like a gentleman. 
XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due 
bound, 

And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; 
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the 
ground. 

And rather held in than put forth his vigor; 
And then he had an ear for music's sound. 

Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigor : 
Such classic J>as — sans flaws — set off our hero, 
He glanced like a personified Bolero; 



Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, 
In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
Remnant were there of the old world's sole 
throne. 

The /ou^ ensc7}ible of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal seldom shown, 

And ne'er to be described : for, to the dolor 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favorite : 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; 

A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; 
At least he kept his vanity retired. 

Such w^as his tact, he could alike delight 
The chaste, and those who're not so much 
inspired: \casserie. 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke,. who loved ti'a- 

Began to treat him with some small agacerie. 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown 
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated [blonde, 
For several winters \Yi\}i\^^x2LVi^y grand 7nonde, 
i I'd nather not say what might be related 



756 



DOX yCAA\ 



182.1 



Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;' 
Besides, there might be falsehood in what's 
stated: 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation: 
But such small licenses must lovers brook. 

Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 

'Twill but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 
The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then 
sneer'd; I 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd: 

Some hoped things might not turn out as they: 

fear'd; [be found;' 

Some would not deem such women could' 

Some ne'er believed one-half of what they 

heard; [profound ;| 

Seme look'd perplex'd, and others look'dl 
And several pitied, with sincere regret, | 

Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenel. 

XLV. 
But what is odd, none ever named the Duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in 
the affair: 
True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumor''d, took 

But small concern about the when, or where, 
Or what his consort did: if he could brook 

Her gaieties, none had a right to stare. . I 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,' 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. ' 

XLV I. j 

But oh that I should ever pen so sad a line! ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, slie, 1 
My Dian of the Ephesians*, Lady Adeline, i 

Began to think the Duchess' conduct free; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, [line, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fra- 
gility, ! 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There's nought in this l^ad world like sympa- 

'Tis so becoming to the soul and face; [thy: 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what were humanity. 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? 
Consoling us with — " W(nild you had thought 

twice! 
Ah! if you had but fulUnv'd my advice!" 



XLVIII. 

Oil, Job! you had two friends: one's quite 

Especially when we are ill at ease : [enough , 

They are but bad pilots when the weather's 

rough ; 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 

When your affairs come round, one way or 

t'other, 
(io to the coffee-house, and take another.* 

XLIX. 
But this is not my maxim: had it been, 

Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet 
I care not — 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weathei 
w^ear not. 
'Tis better, on the whole, to have felt and seen 
That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 
'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive. 
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 

Is that portentous phrase, ** I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends,those prophets of the past, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last. 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst bonos 
viores. 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

W^as not confined to feeling for her friend. 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 
Unless her habits should begin to mend: 

I^ut Juan also shared in her austerity, 

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was ])enn'd : 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LIL 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 
And hers were those which can face calcu- 
lation, 

* In Swift's or Horace Walpole*s letters, I think it is 
mentioned that somebody, regretting the loss of a friend, 
was answered by an universal Pylades : " When 1 lose 
one, I go to the St. James's Coffee-house, and take an- 
other." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. 
Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to 
the club of which he was a member, he was observed to 
look melancholy. " What is the matter. Sir William ?" 
cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ah,'' replied Sir W., 
" I have just lost poor Lady D." " Lost ! What at — 
Quinze or Hazani f' was the consolatory rejoinder of 
the querist. 



1823. 



DON J VAX. 



1S7 



Baldly referring to the list of peers, 

And noble births, nor dread the enumera- 
tion — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 

For a young gentleman's fit education; [leap 

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose 

In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. 

LIII. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
Say seven-and-twenty, for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue [new. 
Advance beyond, while they could pass for 

Oh Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, 

so dirty [hew. 

With rust, should surely cease to hack and 

Reset it: shave more smoothly, also slow^er, 

If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age. 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 

'Twas rather her experience made her sage; 
For she had seen the world, and stood its 

As I have caid in — I forget what page : [test, 

'My Muse despises reference, as you've 

guess'd [twenty. 

By this time; — but strike six from seven-and- 

And you M'ill find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV, 

At sixteen she came out, presented, vaunted; 

She put all coronets into commotion : [ed 
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchant- 

With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adam, call'd ** the happiest of men." 

LVI. 

Since then she had sparkled through three 
glowing winters. 
Admired, adored; but also so correct. 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

W^ithout the apparel of being circumspect. 
They could not even glean the slightest splin- 
t;?:-s 
From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment since her 

marriage. 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night : 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound 
her — 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 



Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; 

But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right: 
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
A woman, so she's good, what does it signify? 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle, 

W^hich with the landlord makes too long a 
stand. 

Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
Especially with politics on hand: 

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle. 

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the 

I hate it, as I hate an argument, [sand; 

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's *^ content." 

LIX. 

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things. 
They're so much intertwisted with the earth •. 

So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs, 
Would make indeed some melancholy 

But this is not at present my concern, [mirth; 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.* 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat. 
Both to the Duchess and diplomatist, 

The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist — 

(For foreigners don't know that difaux pas 
In England ranks quite on a different list 

From those of other lands unblest with juries. 

Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is") — 



The Lady Adeline resolved to take [impede 
Such measures as she thought might best 

The further progress of this sad mistake. 
She thought with some simplicity indeed; 

But innocence is bold even at the stake. 
And simple in the w^orld, and doth not needj 

Nor use, those palisades by dames erected. 

Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 



It was not that she fear'd the very worst: 
His Grace was an enduring married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the client's clan 

Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded his<- 
The magic of her Grace's talisman. 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 



* The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects 
arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of 
politics : " You see by this, my son, with how litclc 
wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 



758 



DON JUAN, 



1823. 



Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an z«/r?^aw/^, 

And somewhat viechayite in her amorous 

sphere; [haunt 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which 

A lover with caprices soft and dear, 
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 

Find one, each day of the delightful year; 
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow. 
And — what is worst of all — won't let you go: 

LXIV. 
The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 

Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
No wonder then a purer soul should dread 

This sort of chaste liaison for a friend: 
It were much better to be wed or dead. 

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
*Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
If that d.bofine fo7^tune be really bomte. 

LXV. 
And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart. 

Which really knew, or thought it knew, no 
guile, 
She call'd her husband now and then apart. 

And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile. 
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 

To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile; 
And answ^er'd, like a statesman or a prophet. 
In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 
Firstly, he said, "he never interfered 

In anybody's business but the king's." 
Next, that " he never judged from what ap- 
pear'd, [things;" 

Without strong reason, of those sort of 
Thirdly, that "Juan had more brain than beard. 

And was not to be held in leading-strings;" 
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 
**That good but rarely came from good advice." 

LXVII. 

And therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
(Jf the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

Tc leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
At least as far as bienscance allows; 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows; 

That opposition only more attaches — 

But here a messenger brought in despatches; 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council call'd the "Privy," 
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 

To furnish marter for some future Livy, 
To tell how he re(b-iced the nation's debt; 

And :f their full contents I do not give ye, 
It is because I do not know them yet; 



But I shall add them in a brief appendix, 
To come between mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle commonplace or two, 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 
And pass, for w^ant of better, though not new: 

Then broke his packet to see what was in't, 
And, having casually glanced it through. 

Retired : and, as he w^ent out, calmly kiss'd her. 

Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honorable man. 

Proud of his birth, and proud of everything; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure tit to walk before a king: 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays glorious, with a star and 

The very model of a chamberlain — [string; 

And such I mean to make him, when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the 
whole — [tell — 

I don't know what, and therefore cannot 
Which pretty women — the sweet souls! — call 

Certes it was not body: he was well \souL 
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle; 
And in each circumstance of love or war, 
Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I've 
That undeflnable '■^Je 7ie s^ais quoi,''^ [said — 

Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 
To Homer^s Iliad, since it drew to Troy 

The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 
Though, on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan 

Was much inferior to King Menelaus : — [boy 

But thus it is some women will betray us. 



There is an awkward thing which much per- 
plexes, 

Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved, 
By turns, the difference of the several sexes: 

Neither can show quite hew they would be 
loved. 
The sensual for a short time but connects us — • 

The sentimental boasts to be*immoved; 
But both together form a kind of Centaur, 
Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 
A something all -sufficient for the /tear I 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking: 



1823. 



DON JUAN. 



759 



But how to fill up that same vacant part? 

There lies the rub — and this they are but 
Frail mariners afloat without a chart, [weak in. 

They run before the wind through high seas 
breaking; [every shock, 

And when they've made the shore through 
'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 



There is a flower call'd **Love in Idleness," 
For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming 
garden : — 

I will not make his great description less. 
And beg his British godship's humble par- 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, [don, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden; — 

But though the flower is diff^erent, with the 
French \yenche P^"^ 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry ** Voila la Per- 

LXXVI. 
Eureka! I have found it! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness, 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
H^rd labor's an indiff"erent go-between; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship the Argo 
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

'^Beatus ille procul T from ** negotiis,^''-^ 

Saith Horace: the great little poet's wrong; 
His other maxim, ** Noscitur a sociisy'' 

Is much more to the purpose of his song; 
Though even that were sometimes too fero- 
cious, 
Unless good company be kept too long; 
But in his teeth, whate'er their state or station. 
Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 
Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
The earliest knowledge from the tree so 
knowing. 
As far as I know, that the church receives; 
And since that time it need not cost much 
showing 
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring from not em- 
ploying [joying. 
Some hours to make the remnant worth en- 

LXXIX. 
And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must inrent 



* See " La Nouvelle Heloise,' 
\ Hor. Ep©d, Od. ii. 



A sometliing wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about 
Content: 
Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; 

And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 
Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and romances. 
Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I've seen; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, [been : 

Would some believe that such a tale had 
But such intent I never had, nor have it: 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen. 
Especially when they would look like lies; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXX I. 
** An oyster may be cross'd in love"* — and 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, [why? 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh. 

Much as a monk may do within his cell ; 
And a propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXIL 

Oh Wilberforce! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say. 

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down. 
Thou moral Washington of Africa! 

But there's another little thing, I own. 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's 

And set the other half of earth to rights; [day. 

You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up 
the whites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander! 

Ship off" the Holy Three to Senegal; 
Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for 
gander," 

And ask them how t/iejy like to be in thrall? 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's but 
small) ; 
Shut up — no, tiot the King, but the Pavilion, 
Or else 'twill cost us all another million, 

LXXXIV. 
Shut up the world at large; let Bedlam out; 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route. 

As now with those of soi-disa7tt sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt. 

Were there a jot of sense among mankind; 



* [See Sheridan's " Critic."] 



760 



DOX JUAN, 



1823. 



But till that point d'appui is found, alas, 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 



Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid 
mansion. 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 
As she had seen nought claiming its expan- 
sion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 
Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a staunch 
one: 
But when the latter works its own undoing. 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 

I'he stone of Sisyphus, if once we move 
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 

She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: 

Their union was a model to behold, 

Serene and noble — conjugal, but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years, [clash'd; 

Though much in temper; but they never 
They moved like stars united in their spheres. 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. 
Where mingled, and yet separate, appears 

The river from the lake all bluely dash'd 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 

In anything, however she might flatter 
Herself that her intentions were the best, 

Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 
Impressions were much stronger than she 
guess'd. 
And gather'd as they ran, like growing water. 
Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast 
Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen. 
That is, when they succeed; but greatly 
blamed. 

As obstinacy y both in men and women, 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is 
tamed : — 

And 'twill perplex the casuist in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous ([uality. 



Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness; now 'tis pertinacity: 
Must the event decide between the two? 

I leave it to your people of sagacity 
To draw the line between the false and true, 

If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity : 
My business is with lady Adeline, 
Who in her way, too, was a heroine. 

xci. 
She knew not her own heart : then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new ®ne: 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a 
stranger. 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and 
this 

Without the farce of friendship or romance 
Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in 
France 
Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance; 
But of such friendship as man's may to man be. 
She was as capable as woman can be. 

XCIII. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also in the ties of blood. 

An innocent predominance annex. 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship 
checks. 
And your true feelings fully understood, 

No friend like to a woman earth discovers. 

So that you have not been, nor will be, lovers. 

xciv. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 
Of change: and how should this be other- 
wise? 
That violent things more quickly find a term. 
Is shown through nature's whole analogies; 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm? 
Would you have endless lightning in the 
skies? 
Methinks Love's very title says enough : ^ 

How should the te^ider passion e'er be tougJi ? 1 

xcv. 
Alas! by all experience, seldom yet 
(I merely (juote what I have heard from many) 



1824. 



DON JUAX, 



761 



Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 

I've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the bestorworst of any) 

Who were the very paragons of wives, 

Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 

I've p,lso seen some i^vwdXt. friends ('tis odd, 
But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 

That faithful were, through thick and thin, 
abroad, 
At home, far more than ever yet was Lore — 

Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 
Upon me; whom no scandal could remove; 

Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my 
battles. 

Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
Grew friends in this or any other sense, 

Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: | 

At present I am glad of a pretence ! 

To leave them hovering, as the effect is tine, 
And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense ; 

The surest way for ladies and for books, 

To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied 
Spanish, 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish, 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 
** small," 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next canto; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 



xcix. 
Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter: 
They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 

And Juan too, especially the latter. 
And I shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

C. 
But great things spring from little : — would you 
think 

That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, 
As few would ever dream could form the link 

Of such a sentimental situation? 
Vou'U never guess, I'll bet you millions, 
milliards. [liards. 

It all sprung from a harmless game at bil- 

ci. 
'Tis strange, — but true: for truth is always 
strange; 

Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 
How much v/ould novels gain by the exchange! 

How differently the world would men behold ; 
How oft would vice and virtue places change! 

The new world would be nothing to the old. 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CII. 

What '*antres vast and deserts idle " then 
Would be discover'd in the human soul! 

What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole! 

What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdom in control! 

Were things but only call'd by their right name, 

Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. 



1824, 



Ah ! — -What should follow slips from my reflec- 
Whatever follows ne'erthelessmay be [tion: 

As a propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd 

All present life is but an interjection, [free. 
An *<Oh!" or <<Ah!" of joy or misery, 

Or a <* Ha! ha!" or ** Bah!" — a yawn, or 
"Pooh!" 

Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 



But more or less, the whole's a syncope 
Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 

That grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the 
ocean. 

That watery outline of eternity. 

Or miniature, at least, as is my notion, 

Which ministers unto the soul's delight^ 

In seeing matters which are out of sight 



762 



DOX yUAX. 



1824 



But all are better than the sigh siipprest, 
Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 

Making the countenance a mask of rest, 
And turning human nature to an art. 

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst 
Dissimulation always sets apart [or best: 

A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 

Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah! who can tell? Or rather who cannot 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 

Irjath got blue devils for his morning mir- 
rors: [float, 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to 
lie cannot sink his tremors or his terrors: 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand, 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 

And as for love — Oh love! We will pro- 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, [ceed. 

A pretty name as one would wish to read. 
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 

There's music in the sighing of a reed; 
There's music in the gushing of a rill; 

There's music in all things, if men had ears: 

Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honorable. 

And honor'd, ran a risk of growing less so: 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

In their resolves — alas, that I should say so! 

They differ as wine differs from its label, [so. 



And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 
On ready money, or << a draft on Ransom." 



IX. 

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from 
duty? 
The more's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for-youi 
booty, 
You should be civil in a modest way; 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases; 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 

X. 
Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested (as was said), 
Because she was not apt, like some of us, 

To like too readily, or too high bred 
To show it (points we need not now discuss), — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and heatt 
Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 
For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 
Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumor, 

That live-gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, 
She had heard; but women hear with more 
good humor 
Such aberrations, than we men of rigor r 
Besides, his conduct since in England grew 
more [or : 

Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vig- 
Because he had, like Alcibiades, 
The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XII. 



When once decanted; — I presume to guess 1 His manner was perhaps the more seductive. 



But will not swear: yet both, upon occasion, 
Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 

The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet 
Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 

Or glorious as a diamond richly set; [age, 
A page where Time should hesitate to print 

And for which Nature might forego her 
debt — 
Sole creditor whose process doth involve in't 
Tiie luck of finding everybody solvent. 

VIII. 
Oh Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily 

Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap 



Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce; 
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive. 

Of coxcombry or conquest; no abuse 
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 

To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 
And seem to say, *' Resist us if you can " — 
Which makes a dandy, while it spoils a man. 

xiir. 

They are wrong — that's not the way to set 

about it; [shown. 

As, if they told the truth, could well be 

But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it: 

In fact, his manner was his own alone. 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 
In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
Like a meek tradesman when approaching '^he devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, 
palelv i An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

Some splendid debtor he would take by sap;] Xiv. 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, ho i By nature soft, his wh(^le adtlress held off 



Advances with exasperated rap, 



1 



vSuspicion: lliough not timid, his regard 



1824. 



DON JUAN, 



7^3 



Was such as rather seeni'd to keep aloof, 
To shield himself, than put you on your 
guard : 
Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough. 

But modesty's at times its own reward, 
Like virtue; and the absence of pretension 
Will go much further than there's need to 
mention. 

XV. 
Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud; 
• Insinuating, without insinuation; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation; 

Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud. 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 

And theirs: — without a struggle for priority. 

He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority — 

XVI. 

That is, with men : with women he was what 

They pleased to make or take him for; and 
Imagination's quite enough for that; [their 

So that the outline's tolerably fair. 
They fill the canvas up — and verbum sat. 

If once their phantasies be brought to bear 
Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 
They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 
Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a coloring from her own : 
'Tis thus the good will amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
Experience is the chief philosopher, 

But saddest when his science is well known : 
And persecuted sages teach the schools 
Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 
Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Cjreat Socrates? And Thou, Diviner still,* 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And Thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken. 

How was Thy toil rewarded? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 
I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
Amidst life's infinite variety : 



* As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
I sav that I mean by "Diviner still," Christ. If ever 
God was man, — or man God, — He was both. I never 
arraigned His creed, but the use, or abuse, made of it. 
Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction 
negro slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had little to say In 
reply. And was Christ crucified that black men might 
be scourged ? If so, He had better been born a Mulatto, 
to give both colors an equal chance of freedom, or at 
least salvation. 



With no great care for what is nicknamed glory. 
But speculating as I cast mine eye 

On what may suit, or may not suit, my story, 
And never straining hard to versify, 

I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 

With anybody in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; 

But there's a conversational facility, 

Which may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I'm sure, at least there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what's uppermost of new or 

Just as I feel the Improvisator e. [hoary, 

XXI. 

** Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die ali- 
quando 

Y,X.bene, die neutrum, die aliquando vialey* 
The first is rather more than mortal can do; 

The second may be sadly done or gaily: 
The third is still more difficult to stand to; 

The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, 
daily: 
The whole together is what I could wish 
To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty's m.y forte. 
And pride my foible: let us ramble' on. 

I meant to make this poem very short; 

But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the settmg sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more, but I was born for opposition. 

XXIII. 
But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side. 

So that I verily believe, if they [pride 

Who now are basking in their full-blown 

Were shaken down, and ** dogs had had 
their day," 
Though at the first I might perchance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way. 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 
I think I should have made a decent spouse. 

If I had never proved the soft condition; 
I think I should have made monastic vows. 

But for my own peculiar superstition: 



* [Thou finely would'st say all 1 
Say something well: 
Say something ill it thou 
Wouidst bear the bell. 

ElphinstonJ 



764 



DOX yCAX. 



1824. 



^Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd 
my brows, [cian, 

Nor broken my own head, nor that of Pris- 
Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But laissez allcr — knights and dames I sing, 

Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 
Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 

Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite. 
The difficulty lies in coloring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 
With nature, manners which are artificial, 
And rendering general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 
The difference is, that in the days of old, 

Men made the manners: manners now make 

men — [fold, 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their 

At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 
Now this at all events must render cold 

Your writers, who must either draw again 
Days better drawn before, or else assume 
The present, with their commonplace costume. 
XXVII. 

We'll do our best to make the best on't: — 
March! [ter; 

March, my Muse! if you cannot fly, yet flut- 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research: 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage. 
While yet America was in her nonage. 

XXVIII. 
When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

W^hich is for innocence a sad temptation — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 
For which small thanks are still the market 
price, 
Even where the article at highest rate is. 
She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 

And morally decided the best state is. 
For morals, marriage; and this question car- 
She seriously advised hijii to get married, [ried, 

XXX. 
Juan replied, with all becoming fleferencc, 
lie had a predilection for that tic; 



But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his ow^n preference. 

Or that of her to whom he might apply; 
That still he'd wed with such and such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 
Next to the making matches for herself, [kin, 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or 
Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 

There's nothing women love to dabble in 
More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
I Than matchmaking in general: 'tis no sin, 
Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
I That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

I XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 
i Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Ox wed already, who object to this) [head, 
I W^as there chaste dame who had not, in her 
Some drama of the marriage unities. 

Observed as strictly, both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
.They turn out melodramesor pantomimes. 
XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps 
might end 

A line, and leave posterity undone. 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals, and, besides. 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
I For this an heiress, and for that a beauty: 
! For one, a songstress who hath no defect; 

For t'other, one who promises much duty: 
For this, a lady no one can reject, [booty; 
I Whose sole accomplishments were quite a 
A second for her excellent connections; 
A third because there can be no objections. 
XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed mar- 
riage [ishes 
In his harmonious settlement* (which flour- 

* This extraordinary and flourishing German colony 
in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
"Shakers" do, but lays such restrictions upon it as 
prevent more thrxn a certain quantum of births within a 
certain number of years ; which births (as Mr. Hulme 
obser\ es] " generally arrive in a little liock like tliose of 
a f irmci's lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
These Harmonists (so called from t'ne n.im'2 of their 
settlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, 
pious, and quiet people, Sec the various recent writer^ 
on America. 



IS24. 



DON JUAN. 



765 



.Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
Because it breeds no more mouths than it 
nourishes, 
Without those sad expenses which disparage 

What Nature naturally most encourages), 
Why call'd he '* Harmony " a state sans wed- 
lock? 
Now here I've got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

. Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly; 
But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in 
Germany 
Or not, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly. 
Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more 
broadly. 
My objection's to his title, not his ritual. 
Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons. 
Who favor, malgre Malthus, generation — 

Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation; 

Which, after all, at such a desperate rate runs. 
That half its produce tends to emigration. 

That sad result of passions and potatoes — 

1 "wo words which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Mad Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell: 
I wish she had; his book's the eleventh 
commandment, [well ; 

Which says, <* Thou shalt not marry," unless 
This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 

' Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell. 
Nor canvass what ** so eminent a hand"* 

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, [meant; 

Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 



But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance. 

Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas 
doomed — 
As on the whole it is an even chance 

That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom' d, 
May retrograde a little in the dance 

Of marriage — which might form a painter's 
fame, [the same: 

Like Holbein's <« Dance of Death " — but 'tis 

* Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accuo-l 
tomed to call his writers "able pens," "persons of 
honor/' and especially *• eminent hands." Vide Corre- 
spondence, &c. 1 



But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
In her own mind, and that's enough for 
woman : [Miss Reading, 

But then with whom? There was the sage 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and 
Miss Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 
wShe deem'd his merits something more than 
common: 
All these were unobjectionable matches. 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 



There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's 
That usual paragon, an only daughter, [sea, 

Who seem'd the cream of equanimity. 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some 
milk and water, 

With a slight shade of blue, too, it might be, 
Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? 

Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet. 

And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoe- 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, [string. 

Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue 
string; 
But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 

Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string 
By which such sirens can attract our great. 

She took up with some foreign younger brother, 

A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t'other. 



And then there was — but why should I go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, [class — 
Of the best class, and better than her 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass; 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded; 



Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only 
Child to the care of guardians good and 

But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! [kind ; 
Blood is not water; and where shall we find 

Feelings of youth like those which overthrown 
By death,when weare left, alas! behind, [lie 

To feel in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? 

XLV. 
Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had something of sublime 



766 



DOM yi/AN. 



1824, 



In eyes, which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine:! Li. 

All youth — but with an aspect beyond time: And wherefore not? A reasonable reason. 
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline; If good, is none the worse for repetition; 

Mournful — but mournful of another's crime; If bad, the best way's certainly to tease on, 
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, [more. | And amplify : you lose much by concision ! 
And grieved for those who could return no ^Whereas insisting in or out of season 



She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allowed. 

And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear. 

Perhaps, because 'twas fallen: her sires 

were proud [ear 

Of deeds and days, when they had fill'd the 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power; and as she was the last, 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XI VII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
As seeking not to know it; silent, lone. 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew : 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 



Convinces all men, even a politician; 
Or — what is just the same — it wearies out: 
So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LII. 

IV/iy Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice, [ture, 

\Vith all the added charm of form and fea- 

For me appears a question far too nice, 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature. 

But nature's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIII. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet w^ay 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 

Which charm most people in their earlier day: 
For there are few things by mankind less 
braok'd. 



Apart from the surrounding world, and strong , , . -, -r 

In its own strength— most strange in one sol^nd womankind too, if we so may say 



young! 



XLVIII. 



Now" it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, [vogue, 

Although her birth and wealth had given her 
Beyond the charmers we've already cited: 

Hen beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
Against her being mention'd as well fitted 

By many virtues to be worth the trouble 

Of single gentlemen, who would be double. 

XLIX. 
And this omission, like that of the bust 

Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd, half smiling and half 
serious; 
When Adeline replied, with some disgust. 

And with an air, to say the least, imperious. 
She marvell'd '' what he saw in such a baby. 
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby!" 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd, — " she was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick. 
And the Pope thunder excommunication. 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As UKual — the same reason which she laic did. 



Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
Like ** Antony's by CDesar," by the few 
Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 

It was not envy — Adeline had none; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind: 

It was not scorn — which could not light on 

one [find: 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to 
It was not jealousy, I think; but shun 

Following the igiies falui of mankind: 

It was not But 'tis easier far, alas! 

To say what it was not than what it was." 

LV. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
Of such discussion. She was there a guest; 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 
Of rank and youth, though purer than the 
rest. 

Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling 
crest. [smiled — 

Had she known this, she would have calmly 

She had so much, or little, of tlie child. 

LVI. 
The dashing and proutl air of Adeline 

Imposed not upon her; she saw her blaze 
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm 
shine. 
Then turn'd unli^ the stars for loftier rayb. 



IS24. 



DON yuAKr. 



7^7 



Juan was something she could not divine, 

Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; 
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame, too — for he had that kind of fame 
Which sometimes plays the deuce with wo- 
mankind, 
A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 
Half yirtues and* whole vices being com- 
bined; 
Faults which attract because they are not tame; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they 
blind; — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVIII. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere. 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea. 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere. 
Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be. 

Nor would be, thus: — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime compari- 
son, [tive, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narra- 
And, as my friend Scott says, ** I sound my 
warison;" 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or 
Saracen, [share it, if 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none w^ould 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Vol- 
taire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surface of humanity. 

I write the world, nor care if the world read; 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My muse hath bred, and still perhaps may 

breed, [ga-n it, I 

More foes by this same scroll: when I be- 

Thought that it might turn out so — now I know 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. [it; 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 
As congresses of late do) of the Lady 

Adeline and Don Juan rather blended [heady ; 
Some acids with the sweets — for she was 

But ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
The silvery bell rang, not for *<dinner ready," 



But for that hour, call'd half -hour ^ given t*» 

dress, [less. 

Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for 

LXII. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table, 

With massy plate for armor, knives and forks 

For weapons; but what Muse since Homer's 

able [works) 

(His feasts are not the worst part of his 
To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners, where more mystery lurks 
In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 
Than witches, b — ches, or physicians brew? 

LXIII. 
There was a goodly soupe a la bonne femme, 

Though God knows whence it came from; 
there was, too, 
A turbot, for relief of those who cram. 

Relieved with dindon a la Perigeux; 
There also was the sinner that»I am! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza 
through? — 
Soupe a la Beauveau, whose relief was dory, 
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXTV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess. 
Or mass; for, should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 
Than when some squeamish people deem 
her frail. 

But though a bonne vivante, I must confess 
Her stomach's not her peccant part : this tale. 

However, doth require some slight refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 

Fowls a la Conde, slices eke of salmon, [son; 

With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of veni- 

Wines, too, which might again have slain 

young Ammon — [soon. 

A man like whom I hope we shan't see many 
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on. 

Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison: 
And then there was champagne, with foaming 
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls, [whirls, 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what a VAlleviande^ 
A PEspagnole, iiniballe and salpicon — 

With things I can't withstand or understand. 
Though swallow'd with much zest, upon the 

And entre77iets to piddle with, at hand, [whole; 
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; 

While great Lucullus'* robe iriitviphale muf- 
fles — [with truflles,, 

( Ther e^ s fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd 

* A dish a la Lucullus. This hero, who conquered 
the Enst, hns !eft his more extended celebrity to the 
transpiantatiou of cherries (which he first brouj;ht intQ 



76S 



DOX yUAX. 



1824. 



LXVII. 
What are \\i^ fillets on the victor's brow 
To these? They are rags or dust. Where 
is the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? 
Where the triumphal chariot's haughty 
march ? 
Gone to where victories must, like dinners, go. 

Further I shall not follow the research; 
But oh! ye modern heroes, with your cart- 
ridges, [tridges? 
When will your names lend lustre e'en to par- 

LXVIII. 

Those truffles, too, are no bad accessories, 
FoUow'd hy petits pints d^amour^- — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies; 
So every one may dress it to his wish, ■ 

According to the best of dictionaries, ' 

Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; I 

But even ^a7is confitures^ it no less true is : 

There's pretty picking in those petits puits. i 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect, expanded on two courses; 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ra- 
tion, [resources 
That cookery could have call'd forth such 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; 

The dinars of celebrity dined well; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell. 
Also the younger men, too; for a springald 

Can't, like ripe age, in gourmandize excel; 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(V/hen seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas! I must leave undescribed the^/7>?>r. 
The salmi., the consomme, the puree, 

All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber, 
Than could roast beef in our rough John 
Bull way: 



Europe), and the nOinenclature of some very good dishes; 
and I am not sr.re thit (barring indigestion) he has not 
done more service lo mankind by his cookery than by 
his conquests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a 
bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to earn celeb- 
rity from both. 

* Petits putts d'atnour garnis des confitures^ a 
classical ana well-known dish for part of the flank of a 
secOiid course. 



I must not introduce even a spare-rib here: 
** Bubble and squeak" would spoil my 
liquid lay; 
But I have dined, and must forego, alas, 
The chaste description even of a bccasse, 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature, for the service of the ^^^/ — 

7\iste or \\\^ gotit — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach: ere y(5u dine, the French 
will do; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English bruer of the two. 

Hast ever had \\\^ gout? I have not had it — 

Hut I may have; and you, too, reader, dread it. 

LXXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine. 
Must I pass over in my bill of fare? 

I must, although a favorite plat of mine 
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere. 

On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine. 
The grass my table-cloth, in open air. 

On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 

On whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIV. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 
And vegetables, all in masquerade. 

The guests were placed according to their roll ; 
But various as the various meats display'd: 

Don Juan sat next an ^ V Espagriole — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 

But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 

Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 



By some odd chance, too, he was placed be- 
Aurora and the Lady Adeline — [iweeu 

A situation difficult, I ween. 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 

Also the conference which we have seen, 
Was not such as to encourage him to shine; 

For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 

With two transcendent eyes seem'tl to look 
through him. 

LXX VI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: 
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, thini^> 

Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears. 
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge 
springs; 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, 

'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word 



'\ 



i 



1824. 



DON JUAN. 



769 



LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

V/hich piques dipreux chevalier — as it ought : 
Of all offences, that's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a 
thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught, 
Like a good ship entangled among ice. 
And after so much excellent advice. 
LXXVIII. 

To his gay nothings nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside. 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity.? 

Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, ♦< I said it;" 
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend. 

Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit. 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end: 

For all men prophesy what is or was, [pass. 

And hate those who won't let them come to 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight, but select, and just enough to ex- 
press, 
To females of conspicuous comprehensions. 
That he would rather make them more than 
less. 
Aurora, at the last (so history mentions. 
Though probably much less a fact than 
guess), [prison. 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet 
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 
From answering, she began to question : this 

Wit 1 her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet 
Thoug It her predictions went not much amiss, 

Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 
So ver) difficult, they say, it is [set 

Tok ep extremes from meeting, when once 
In moti m; but she here too much refined — 
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juai- had a sort of winning way, 

A proi.d humility, if such there be, [say. 
Which sb.ow'd such deference to what females 

As if each charming word were a decree. 



His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, 
And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out, 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who, in her indifference. 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 

Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more 

sense [loud, — 

Than whispering foplings, or than witling 
Commenced (from such slight things will 
great commence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment. 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXI V. 

And then he had good looks; — that point was 
carried 
Nem, con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
To say leads oft to crini. con. with the mar- 
ried — 
A case which to the juries we may leave. 
Since with digressions we too long have tar- 
ried, [ceive. 
Now, though we know of old that looks de- 
And always have done, somehow these good 

looks 
Make more impressions than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
I Was very young, although so very sage. 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 

Especially upon a printed page. 
I But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 
j Has not the natural stays of strict old age; 
I And Socrates, that model of all duty, [beauty. 
iOwn'd to a penchant ^ though discreet, for 

LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates: 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should dis- 
In virgins — always in a modest way, [please 
Observe; for that with me's 2. sine qua* 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe that, like the great Lord Coke 
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'^ 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 



*Subauditur " »^«," omitted for the sake of euphony.. 
49 



770 



BOX yCAX, 



1824. 



Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, I XCIII. 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest; But politics, and policy, and piety. 
But if a writer should be quite consistent, | Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 

How could he possibly show things existent? Not only fur the sake of their variety. 

But as subservient to a moral use; 



LXXXVIII 



Because my business is to d?'ess society. 

And stuff with sage that very verdant goose; 
And now, that we may furnish with some matter 
TasteSjWe are going to try the supernatural, [all 



XCIV. 



If people contradict themselves, can I 

Help contradicting them, and everybody. 
Even my veracious self? — But that's a lie: 

I never did so, never will — how should I? 
He who doubts all things, nothing can deny: 

Truth's fountains may be clear — her And now I will give up all argument; 
streams are muddy, [tion,' And positively henceforth no temptation 

And cut through such canals of contradic- ^^^^11 "fool me to the top up of my bent."* 

Yes, 111 begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed, I never knew what people meant. 
By dreaming that my Muse's conversation 



That she must often navigate o'er fiction 
LXXXIX. 



Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable 

Are false, but may be render'd also true, 

By those who sow them in a land that's arable. 
'Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 

'Tis said it makes reality mure bearable: 
But v^hat's reality? Who has its clue? 

Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. 

Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? 



jWas dangerous: I think she is as harmless 
As some who labor more, and yet may charm 
less. 



xcv. 



Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? [dumb! 
No; but you've heard — I understand — be 
And don't forget the time you may hav.^ lost, 
P'or you have got that pleasure still to come; 
^C- I And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty' Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 

Q\Q^2iX: That source of the sublime and the mys- 

Perhaps it mav turn out that all were right. I terious: 

God help us! SL-e we've need, on our career, i^o^ certain reasons, my belief is serious. 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, | XCVI. 

'Tis time that some new prophet should appear, ^ 

Or old indulge man with a second sight. -Serious? Youlaugh— you may : that will I not. 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where? That shall I not recall, 
Because I'd rather it should be forgot: 

** Shadows the soul of Richard " may appal. 
In short, upon that subject I've some qualms 

very 
Like those of the philosopher lA Malmsbury.-j- 



Opinions wear out in some thousand year 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres 



XCI. 



But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle; 
And yet, such is my folly or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle. 
About the present, past, or future state; 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 



But though I am a temperate theologian, 
And also meek as a metaphysician, 

Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 1 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission. 

In politics my duty is to show John [dition. 
Bui) something of the lower world's con-| 

It makes my Vjlood boil like the springs oft 
Hecla [law. 



The night — (I sing by night — sometimes an 
owl. 

And now and then a nightingale) — is dim; 
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 

Rattles around me her discordant hymn: 
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 

I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 
The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 
I think, too, that I have sate up too late: 



* Hamlet, act iii. scene 2, 
t Hobbes, who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
• 1- 1 compliment to the souls of other people as to declin« 

To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 



II 



1824. 



DO]^ yuA.v. 



11^ 



XCVIII. 
And therefore, though 'tis by no means my 
way 

To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 
To think of, if I ever think — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 
And prudently postpone until midday 

Treating a topic which, alas, but brings 
Shadows; — but you must be in my condition. 
Before you learn to call this superstition. 



XCIX, 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's 
I verge. 

I How little do we know that which we are! 

How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 

Our bubbles: as the old burst, new emerge, 
• Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves 
Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. 



1824. 



The antique Persians taught three useful 
things, [truth,* 

To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the 
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 

A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
Bows have they, generally with two strings: 

Horses they ride without remorse or ruth: 
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever. 
But draw the long bow better now than ever. 



The cause of this effect, or this defect — 
"For this effect defective comes by cause"f — 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect; 

But this I must say in my own applause. 

Of all the Muses that I recollect. 

Whatever may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From anything, this epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, [vain. 
Which you might elsewhere hope to find in 

'Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets. 
Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain. 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

**De rebus ainctis ei quibusdam aiiisy 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 

What then.? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 



* Xenophon, Cyrop. 
t Hamlet, act ii. scene 3. 



Where all the dwellers of the earth must 

dwell? [as 

'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb 

The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 

Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; 
Men whose historical superiority 

Is always greatest at a miracle. 
But Saint Augustine has the great priority. 

Who bids all men believe the impossible, 
Because'' tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble. 
Quiets at once with ^^quia impossibile." [he 

VI. 
And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all : 

Believe: — if 'tis improbable, you must; 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall [just 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and 
Receive as gospel, andwhich grow more rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 

VII. 
I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 

That, in the course of some six thousand years 
All nations have believed that, from the dead, 

A visitant at intervals appears. 
And what is strangest upon this strange head, 

Is that, whatever bar the reason rears 
'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger 
In its behalf, let those deny who will. [still 

VIII. 
The dinner and the soiree, too, were done: 

Thesupper,too,discuss'd,the dames admired: 
The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one — 
The song was silent and the dance expired/ 
The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
Like fleecv clouds into the sky retired, 



DO^t yuA^. 



1824. 



Ami nothing brighter gleamed through the 

saloon, 
Than (-lying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt; 
Or like a soda bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; 
Or like a billow, left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind; 

X. 

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, 
Or none; or like — like nothing that I know, 

Except itself; — such is the human breast: 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple,* none at present can tell how, 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 

So perish every tyrant's robe, piecemeal! 

XI, 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball. 

Undressing is a woe: our robe de chambre 

May sit like that ofNessus, and recall [amber. 
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than 

ritus exclaim'd, "I've lost a day!" Of all 
The nights and days most people can re- 
member 

(I've had of both, some not to be disdain'd), 

I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 



I XIV. 

But lover, poet, or astronomer. 

Shepherd or swain, whoever may behold. 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: 

Great thoughts we catch from thence (be- 
sides a cold 
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) : 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told: 
The ocean's tides and mortal's brains she 

sways, 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 
Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 

For contemplation rather than his pillow: 
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed. 

Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow. 
With all the mystery by midnight caused: 

Below his window waved (of course) a wil- 
And he stood gazing out on the cascade [low; 
I That flash'd, and after darken'd in the shade. 



And Juan, on retiring for the night, [ed: 

Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromis- 

lle thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; 

If he had known exactly his own plight, 
He probably would have philosophized; 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted: therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

I le sigh'd : — The next resource is the full moon. 
Where all sighs are deposited; and now. 

It happen'd, luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow! 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
To hail her with the apostrophe — "O thou!" 

Of amatory egotism the Tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 



* The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
from a shell-fish or from cochineal, or from kermes, is 
still an article of dispute ; and even its color — some say 
purple, others scarlet ; I say nothing;. 



Upon his table or his toilet — ivhich 

Of these is not exactly ascertain'd 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) — 
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 

Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd. 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 
Then, as the night was clear, though cold, he 
threw 

His chamber door wide open — and went 
Into a gallery of sombre hue, [forth 

Long furnish'd with old pictures of great 
worth. 
Of knights and dames, heroic and chaste too. 

As doubtless should be people of high birth; 
But, by dim lights, the portraits of the dead • 
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XVIII. 

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 

Look living in the moon; and as you turn 
Backward and forward to the echoes faint 

Of your own footsteps, voices from the urn 
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspect 
As if to ask how you can dare to keep [stern, 
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 
And the pale smile of beauties in the grave. 

The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 
Glimmer on high : their buried locks still wave 

Along the canvas: their eyes glance like 
dreams 



1824. 



DON ytlAN. 



IIZ 



On ours, or spars within some dusky cave. 

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. He stood- 



A picture is the past; even ere its frame 

Be ^ilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 



As Juan mused on mutability. 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh, 
Or step, ran sadly through that antique house ; 



XXV. 
-how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
Strain'd on the spot where first the figure 
gleam 'd; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 
And would have pass'd the whole off as a 
dream. 
But could not wake: he was, he did surmise, 
Waking already, and return'd at length 



When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 'Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 



'A supernatural agent — or a mouse. 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people, as it plays along the arras. 



It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd 



jAU there was as he left it: still his taper 

Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 
i Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor; 
j He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 
In cowl and beads,and dusky garb,appear'd. Their office; he took up an old newspaper; 
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in The paper was right easy to peruse; 
sha^Je He read an article the king attacking, 

With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard: I And a long eulogy of ** patent blacking." 
His garments only a slight murmur made; j xxvii. 

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, This savor'd of this world: but his hand shook — 
But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by | He shut his door, and, after having read 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. A paragraph, I think, about Home Tooke, 

Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. 
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 

With what he'd seen his phantasy he fed; 
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 



xxii. 



Juan was petrified: he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, [in't 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 



Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint. 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold. 
But rarely seen, likegold compared with paper : 
And did he see this, or was it. a vapor? 



XXIII. 
pass'd, 



repass'd — the 



Once, twice, thrice, 
thing of air. 

Of earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place; 
And Juan gazed upon, it with a stare. 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face : 
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not 

granted. 
To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 



XXVIII. 

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, 
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision. 

And whether it ought not to be disclosed. 
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 

The more he thought,' the more his mind was 
posed; 
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 

Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 

Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 



XXIX. 

I He dress'd: and, like young people, he was 

wont 
! To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
This morning rather spent less time upon't: 
I Aside his very mirror soon was put; 
,His curls fell negligently o'er his front; [cut; 
XXIV. His clothes were not curb'd to their usual 

The third time, after a still longer pause, [hall^^^ very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

The shadow pass'd away but where? The Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side. 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause ' XXX. 

To think his vanishing unnatural: [laws And when he walk'd down into the saloon. 
Doors there were many, through which, by the He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 

Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, Which he perhaps had not discovcr'd soon. 
Might come or go; but Juan could not state Had it not happen'd scalding hot to bo, 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evap- Which made him have recourse untu his spoon. 
oi"ate. I So much distrait he was, that all could see 



774 



DON JUAN. 



That something was the matter — Adeline 
The first — but what she could not well divine. 
XXXI. 

She look'd, and saw him pale, and Uirn'd as 
pale [ter'd 

Herself, then hastily look'd down and mut- 
Something, l)ut what's not stated in my tale. 

Lord Henry said his muffin was ill-butter'd; 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil. 

And look'd at Juan hard, hut nothing utter'd. 
Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, 
Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 
But seeing him all cold and silent still. 

And everybody wondering more or less. 
Fair Adeline inquired '* If he were ill?" 

He started, and said, *' Ves — no — rather — 
The family physician had great skill, [yes!" 

And, being present, now began to express 
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
The cause; but Juan said he was quite well. 

XXXIII. 

*' Quite well; yes — no." — These answers were 
mysterious; 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
However they might savor of delirious; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means 
serious; 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the cause, it might be ta'en for granted 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his choco- 
late, 
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, 
Said Juan had not got his usual look elate. 
At which he marvell'd, since it had not 
rain'd; [Duke of late. 

Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the 
Her Grace replied, kis Grace was rather 
pain'd 
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state: 

** You look," quoth he, *< as if you had had 
your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black P'riar of late," 

" What Friar?" said Juan; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless; but the effort was lu^t valid, 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 



XXXVI. 

never heard of 



1824. 



the Black 



** Oh I have you 
Friar, 

The spirit of these walls?" — "In truth, not I." 
*< Why, Fame — but Fame, you know, 's some- 
times a liar — 

Tells an odd story, of which by and by: 
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half believed. 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

** The last time was " " I pray," said 

Adeline [brow, 

(Who vvatch'd the changes of Don Juan's 
And from its context thought she could divine 

Connections, stronger than he chose to avow. 
With this same legend), *< if you but design 

To jest, you'll choose some other theme just 
now: 
Because the present tale has oft been told, 
And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 
**Jest !" quoth Milord ; "why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey- 
moon — I^go- 

iSaw^ " <* Well, no matter, 'twas so long 

! But, come, I'll set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow, 
! She seized her harp, whose strings were 

kindled soon 
I As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
,The air of " 'Twas a Friar of Orders Grey." 
I XXXIX. 

i"But add the words," cried Henry, " which 
I For Adeline is half a poetess," [you made: 
j Turning round to the rest, he, smiling, said. 
i Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one, three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill at once, 
! Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

I XL 

I After some fascinating hesitation — [bound, 
i The charming of these charmers, who seem 
!l can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 
! Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
And sang, with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 



Beware, beware of the Black Friar, 
Who sitteth by Norman stone, 



1824. 



DON JUAN. 



lis 



For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, I 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman church his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still \ 

Would not be driven away. 
2. 
Though he came in his might, with King 

To turn church lands to lay, [Henry's right. 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd. 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in 

Though he is not seen by day. [the church, 

3- 
And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 

He flits on the bridal eve: 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 

4. 
When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn; 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadow'd by his cowl. 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds be- 

And they seem of a parted soul. [tween, 

5. 
But beware, beware of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway; 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

But the monk is lord by night; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 
6. 
Say nought to him as he walks the hall; 

And he'll say nought to you; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him! fair or foul: 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to 
sound; 



And the pause follow'd, which, when song ex- 
pires. 

Pervades a moment those who listen round; 
And then, of course, the circle much admires, 

Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound. 
The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 
To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way. 
As if she rated such accomplishment 

As the mere pastime of an idle day. 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 

Would now and then, as 'twere 7£^/M^«/ display. 
Yet with display, in fact, at times relent 

To such performances with haughty smile. 

To show she could, if it were worth her while. 

XLIII. 

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride,* 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion: 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified. 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion. 

For a spoilt carpet — but the "Attic Bee " 

Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 
(By doing easily, whene'er she chose. 

What dilettanti do with vast parade) 

Their sort oi half profession, for it grows 

To something like this when too oft display'd: 
And that it is so, everybody knows. 

Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady 
T'other, 

Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 
Oh the long evenings of duets and trios! 

The admirations and the speculations: 
The ^^ Mamma Mia'^sP^ and the ** Amor 
Mio'sr 

The ** Tanti palpitVs " on such occasions: 
The ^^ Las ci ami's " and quavering ^^Addio^s!^^ 

Amongst our own most musical of nations: 
With " Tu mi chamas^s " from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.f 



* I think it waj a carpet on which Diogenes tiod, 
with — •' Thus 1 trample on the pride of Plato ;" but as 
carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memo y 
probably misgives me, and it ought to be a robe, or 
tapestry, or table-cloth, or some other expensive or un- 
cynical piece of furniture. 

t I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
parts, did rather indecorously break through the ap- 
plauses of an intelligent audience — intelligent, I mean, as 
to music, — for the words, besides being in recondite lan- 
guages (it was some yenrs before the peace, ere all the 
world had traveled, and while I was a collegian), were 
sorely disguised by the performers; *Sis mayoress, i say. 



776 



DON JUAN, 



1824. 



XLVi. I But of all verse, what most ensured her praise 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home [lands,' Were sonnets to herself, or bouts rimes. 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Grey High- j Li. 

That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam \^r^ vrr i^ . i. . 1 1 • . 

r\^ r K .^ .• *• ^ • ^ A 1 1 Were difticult to say what was the obiect 

O er far Atlantic continents or islands, ' ,^^ \A y ' h \W 1 

The calentures of music which o'ercome ^r u " u ^ >§ . ^t^^??^ ^^i- . 

M-., 1 ..u 4. 4.1, 1 o bear on what appeard to her the subiect 

mountaineers with dreams that they are ..^ , , ^^^ ,. .^ . jy ^ 

nigh lands 



No more to be beheld but in such visions — 
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of **^/«^," 

Could write rhymes, and compose more than 
Made epigrams occasionally, too, [she wrote;, Bat so far the immediate effect 

Upon her friends, as everybody ought. Was to rest.ore him to his self-propriety, 

But still, from that sublimer azure hue, A thing quite necessary to the elect. 



Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day: 
: Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
I To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; 
j Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 
j Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 

LII. 



So much the present dye, she was remote; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 
And, what was worse, was not ashamed to 
show it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
Which now-a-days is the thermometer, 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
Was more Shaksperian, if I do not err. 

The worlds beyond this world's perplexing 
waste 
Had more of her existence, for in her 



Who wish to take the tone of their society: 
In which you cannot be too circumspect, 

Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 

His spirits, and, without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her Grace, too, also seized the same occa- 

With various similar remarks to tally, [sion, 
But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 



There was a depth of feeling to embrace ir^kf^-u- ^- c • •, • j • 

ry,, I . I ji J 1 i. -1 4. 4. Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

Ihoughts boundless, deep, but silent, too, as ^ ^? 

Space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, 

The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose 
If she had any, was upon her face, [mind. 

And that was of a fascinating kind, 
A little turn for mischief you might trace 

Also thereon — but that's not much: we find 
Few females without some such gentle leaven, 
For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 

L. 



About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LIV. 

Of these, few could say more than has been 

said: .. [stition 

They pass'd, as such things do, for super- 

With some; while others, who had more in 

dread 

The theme, half credited the same tradition. 

And much was talk'd on all sides on that head : 

But Juan,when cross-question'd on the vision. 

Which some supposed (though he had not 



I have not heard she was at all poetic, ' avow'd it) 

Though once she was seen reading the Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 
*' Bath Guide," [pathetic, i Y^ 

And'* Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd A •, ,, ., -j j i • 

r, ^ ^: ' A 1 . . i-ji .-J And then, the mid-day having worn to one. 

Because she said her tetnper had been tried ^y^ j . 

e \. ,\. \. A x. ^ 11 1 u .• 1 he company prepared to separate; 

So much, the bard had really been prophetic ^ ^^ ^.i, • i .■ ^ 

f^c u 4. u u J ..1- V .y ' Some to their several pastimes, or to none. 

Of what she had gone through with — since i <. j • j*. i i'* 

v. A I Some wondering 'twas so early, some so late. 

! I There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

broke out with: " Rot your Italianos! for my part, Uovesl Between some greyhounds on my lord's es- 
a simple ballat 1 '* Rossini will go a good way to bring I j^^ 

most people to 'ftie same opinion some day. Who would i ' 



imagine that b.^ was to be the successor of Mozart? And a young race-horsc of old pedigree, [see. 

However, I s( ite this with diflidence, as a liege and Match'd for the spring, whom several went to 

loyal admirer ( 'Italian music in general, and of much of 

Rossini's; but V t may say, as the connoisseur did of the \.\\. 

paintin^^.in th^ I'/nir- of IVake/h'U, " that the picture Vi . ,.:,,, ,irr Hf^il^M- 

would be bett^ painted if the painter had taken more A lieie was. a piauic-dealtl , 

pains." A special i ilian warranted original. 



who had brought 



1524- 



DON yCAN, 



111 



So precious that it was not to be bought, [all, 
Though princes the possessor were besieging 

The king himself had cheapen'd it, but 

thought [all 

The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging 

His subjects l«y his gracious acceptation) 

Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur — 
The friend of artists, if not arts- — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure. 
So that he would have been the very donor 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer. 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honor, 

Had brought the capo d'' opera, not for sale, 

But for his judgment — never known to fail. 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect. 
Brought to survey these grey walls, which, 
though so thick, [defect. 

Might have from time acquired some slight 
"Who, after rummaging the Abbey through 
thick 
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation, 
And throw down old, which he call'd restora- 
tion. 

LIX 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
Set to some thousands ('tis the usual burden 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) : 
The price would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong, 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would 
go forth in 

Its glory through all ages, shining sunny, 

For Gothic daring shown ir English money.* 



There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage | 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new pur-: 
chase : j 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 

And one on tithes, v/hich sure are Dis- 
cord's torches, 

**' Ausu Romano, cere Veneto,' is the inscription 
Cand well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls be- j 
t ween the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a re- 
publican work of the Venetians; the inscription 1 believe 
Imperial, and inscribed by Napoleon the First. It is | 
time to continue to him that title; there will be a second i 
by and by, "■ Spes a 'tera mundi,'^ if he live [Napoleon, ^ 
Duke de Reichstadt. He died at Vienna, 1832 j: let him' 
n jt defeat it like his father. But in any c\%<t he willj 
be preferable to imbeciles. There is a glorious field for j 
him, if he know how to cultivate it. ' 



Kindling Religion till she throws down her 

gage, 
"Untying" squires ** to fight against the 

churches:"* [man. 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, andplough- 
For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 
There were two poachers caught in a steel 
trap, [cence: 

Ready for gaol, their place of convales- 
There was a country girl, in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, 
since — haj^ — 

Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mis- 
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since) 
That scarlet cloak, alas, unclosed with rigor. 
Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery: 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out: 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 

I leave to those who are fond of solving 

doubt; [c>ry» 

And merely state, though not for the consist- 
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner. 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 



Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief, of all kinds, and keep the 
game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who've not a license for the same: 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases. 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: 

Preserving partridges and pretty wenches. 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 



The present culprit was extremely pale. 
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale [bed. 
'Tis white, at least when they just rise from 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
Poor soul I for she was country born and 

And knew no better, in her immorality, [bred. 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 
Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle ty^. 

Had gather'd a large tear into the corner. 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 

For she was not a sentimental mourner, 

, ^ 

* " Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
A^rainst the churchesV — Machnh. 



778 



DOX yUAX. 



1824. 



Parading all her sensibility, 

Nur insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 
But stocnl in trembling, patient tribulation, 
To be caird up for her examination. 

LXVI. 
Of course these groups were scatter'd here and 
there, 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study; and in air [sent 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men 
From town, viz., architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent, 
Writing despatches) in their several stations. 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 
LXVII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the ''small'') 
A mighty mug of vioral double ale. 

She waited until Justice could recall 

Its kind' attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 
LXVIII. 

Vou see here was enough of occupation 
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and 
horses. 

There was much bustle, too, and preparation 
Below-stairs, on the score of second courses : 

Because, as suits their rank and situation. 
Those who in counties have great land re- 
sources, [rouse. 

Have "public days," when all men may ca- 

Though not exactly what's call'd **open house." 

LXIX. 
But once a week or fortnight, //^invited 

(Thus we translate a general inviiatioti) , 
All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in, without cards, and take their 
station 
At the full board, and sit alike delighted 

With fashionable wines and conversation. 
And, as the isthmus of the grand connection. 
Talk o'er,themselves,thepast and nextelection. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer. 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit : 

But county contests cost him rather dearer. 
Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of 
Giftgabbit [here: 

Had English influence, in the self-same sphere 
His son, the Honorable Dick Dicedrabbit, 

Was member for the **other interest" (mean- 

ThesuiiiL- sclf-inlerc-.Nt, Willi a different leaning). 



Cautious and courteous therefore in his county, 
j He was all things to all men, and dispensed 
jTo some civility, to others bounty, 
! And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed; 

But what with keeping some and breaking 
j others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

I LXXII. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 

No less a friend to government, — he held 
That he exactly the just medium hit [pell'd, 
'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit corn- 
Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit. 

He added modestly, when rebels rail'd), 
To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 
I 
I LXXIII. 

He was "free to confess" — (whence comes this 
I phrase? 

j Is't English? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 
'That innovation's spirit now-a-days [century. 
j Had made more progress than for the last 

He would not tread a factious path to praise, 
I Though for the public weal disposed to ven- 
I ture high: 

As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
iThat the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife. 
Which threaten'd the whole country with 
perdition? [knife 

When demagogues would with a butcher's 

Cut thiough and through (oh, damnable 

incision!) [strings 

The Gordian or the G^ordi-an knot, whose 

Have tied together commons, lords, and kings? 



Sooner " come place into the civil list 

And champion him to the utmost" * — he 
would keep it. 

Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: 

Profit he cared not for, let others reap it. 

But shouLd the day come when place ceased to 

exist, [weep it: 

The country would have far more cause to 

For how could it go on? Explain who can! 

He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

•■'' " riath( r than so, come fate into the list, 

An J champion me to the utterance." — Macbeth, 



1824. 



DON JUAN, 



779 



LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 
Than those who were not paid for inde- 
pendence, 

As common soldiers, or a common — shore. 
Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore, 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 
And thought. I say no more — I've said too 
much; 

For all of us have either heard or read — 
Off — or upon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the official candidate. I'll touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung 

And grace is said — the grace I should have 
sung — 

LXXVIII. 

But I'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 'twas a public feast, and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes 
cold. 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And everybody out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 

My lords and ladies proudly condescending; 
The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much 

bending [stand — 

From their high places by the sideboard's 

Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 
For any deviation from the graces \J>laces, 
Might cost both man and master too — their 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers 
keen. 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds 
deigned to lurch: 
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble 

screen. [church, 

There were some massy members of the 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 

And several who sung fewer songs than catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags too — and, alas, 
Some exiles from the town, who had been 
driven 



I To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, . 

And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
And lol upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, 
The very powerful parson Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A brilliant diner out, though but a curate; 

And not^a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(Oh Providence! how wondrous are Thy ways! 

Who would suppose Thy gifts sometimes 

obdurate?) [Lincoln, 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 



His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes; 
} But both were thrown away amongst the fens; 

For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks, 
i No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 

Imbibed the gay bon mot or happy hoax: 

The poor priest was reduced to common 
i sense. 

Or to coarse efforts, very loud and long. 

To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick 
throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, ** between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late, 

The latter worse used of the two, we've seen — 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state); 

A difference *' 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery ware and 
plate. 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none. 

Upon the whole, is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town. 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who've few resources of their own. 
And only think or act or feel with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But en avant! The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests; al- 
though 

A slight repast makes people love much more; 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe [yore 



/So 



DON JUAN. 



1824. 



T© these the invention of champagne and 

truffles; [ruffles. 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting 

LXXXVII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where. 
Confused in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair, [fray, 
Though knives and forks ciank'd round as in a 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there. 
Till some one, with a groan, expressed a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVII I. 

On which, at i\\Q third asking of the banns. 

He started; and, perceiving smiles around, 
Broadening to grins, he color'd more than once. 

And hastily — as nothing can confound 
A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 

Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 
And with such hurry, that, ere he could curb it, 
He had paid his neighbor's prayer with half a 
turbot. 

LXXXIX. 
This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third. 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three 
votes. 

XC. 
They little knew, or might have sympathized, 

That he the night before had seen a ghost, 
A prologue which but slightly harmonized 

\Vith the substantial company engross'd 
By matter, and so much materialized, [most 

That one scarce knew at whaj; to marvel 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd 

is^ [bodies. 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such 

XCI. 
But what confused him more than smile or 
stare 

From all the squires and squiresses around. 
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. 

Especially as he had been renown'd 
Tor some vivacity among the fair, 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound 
(l^'or little things, upon my lord's estate. 
Were good small talk for others still less 

xcii. 

Was that he caught Aurora's eye on hi>>, 

And sometliing like a smile u})on iicr clicck. 



Now this he really rather took amiss: [speak 
In those who rarely smile, their smiles be- 

A strong external motive; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique. 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 
'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity: 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation. 

Which was not very wise, and still less 
witty. 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their 
defences. 

xciv. 
But what was bad, she did not blush in turn. 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary: 
Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 
And she withdrew, but cast not down, her 
eye, 
Yet grew a little pale — with what? concern? 

I know not; but her color ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and al- 
ways clear, 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 
But Adeline was occupied by fame [scending 
This day; and watching, witching, conde- 
To the consumers offish, fowl, and ganje, 
And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 
(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 

XCVI. 
Though this was most expedient, on the whole, 

And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
On Adeline, while playing her grand 7'die, 

Which she went through as though it were a 
Betraying only now and then her soul, [dance, 
! By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 
I Some doubt how much of Adeline was rgal; 

I XCVII. 

So well she acted all and every part 
I By turns, with that vivacious versatility, 
i Which many people take for want of heart. 
I They err — 'tis merely w hat is call'd mobil- 
ity,* 

* 1m French, mob/liit*. 1 am not sure that mobilitv >•• 
KnL;lish; but it is cxprcshive of a quality which rather bc- 
loi;;^ , 10 other climates, though it is sometirticis seen 



1824. 



DON yUAAK 



7S1 



A thing of temperament, and not of art, 

Though seeming so,from its supposed facility ; 
And false — though true; for surely they're sin- 

cerest 
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers 
Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages 
never; 
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
Little that's great, but much of whatisclev- 
Most orators, but very few financiers, [er: 
Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavor 
Of late years to dispense w^ith Cocker's rigors. 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

xcix. 
The poets of arithmetic are they [to be 

Who, though they prove not two and two 
Five, as they might do in a modest way, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three. 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

c. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 

The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at 

ease : [faces. 

Though too well bred to quiz men to their 

Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could 

The ridicules of people in all places — [seize 

That honey of your fashionable bees — 
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 
And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close: 

The evening also waned — and coffee came : 

Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 

Retired; with most unfashionable bows. 

Their docile esquires also did the same; 
Delighted with their dinner and their host, 
But with the Lady Adeline the most. 

Cii. 
Some praised her beauty: others her great 
grace, [cerity 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sin- 
Was obvious in each feature of her face. 
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of 
verity. 

to a great extent in our own. It may be defined 
as an excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions — 
at the same time without losing the past ; and is, though 
sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
painful and unhappy attribute. 



I Yes, she was truly worthy her high place! 
! No one could envy her deserved prosperity. 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity! * 



Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their 
By an impartial indemnification [praises, 

For all her past exertion and soft phrases. 
In a most edifying conversation, [and faces, 

Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens 
And families, even to the last "relation ; 

Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and 
dresses, 

And truculent distortion of their tresses. 



True, she said little — 'twas the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram : 
But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke: 

Like Addison's *'faint praise," so wont to 
damn. 
Her own but served to set off every joke. 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! 
I ask but this of mine, to — not defend. 

I cv. 

■There were but two exceptions to this keen 
vSkirmish of wits o'er the departed: one, 

! Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; 

And Juan, too', in general behind none 
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: 

I In vain he heard the others rail or rally; 

I He would not join them in a single sally. 

I cvi. 

I » 

! 'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 

She approved his silence; she perhaps mis- 
Its motive for that charity we owe, [took 

But seldom pay, the absent, nor would look 
Further: it might or it might not be so: 

But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
Observing little in his reverie. 
Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much 
In making him as silent as a ghost, [good, 

If, in the circumstances which ensued. 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the 

And certainly Aurora had renew'd [most. 

In him some feelings he had lately lost. 

Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal. 

Are so divine, that I must deem them real: — 



* ** Curiosa felicitas." — Petronius Arbiter, 



cviii. I Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 

The love of higher things and better days; When deep sleep fell on men, and the 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignor- ^ world wore 

ance [ways: The starry darkness round her like a girdle, 

Of what is call'd the world and the world's Spangled with gems — the monk made his 

The moments when we gather from a glance 

More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er en- 

The heart in an existence of its own, [trance 



Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 
Who would not sigh At at rav KvOepeLav, 

That /ia//i a memory, or that /ia(/ a heart? 
Alas! /ler star must fade like that of Dian: 



blood curdle. 

CXIV. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,* 
W^iich sets the teeth on edge; and a slight 
clatter, [pass, 

Like showers which on the midnight gust will 
Sounding like very supernatural water, 

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas! 
For immaterialism's a serious matter; 



Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. ^ So that even those whose faith is the most great 
Anacreon only had the soul to tie an \^^ souls immortal, shun them tete-a-Uie. 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted; cxv. 

^^^^ r^^'^^^Sj Were his eyes open? Yes! and his mouth, too. 

Of Eros; but though thou hast play'dus many Surprise has this effect— to make one dumb. 



Still we respect thee, ^^Al??iaVenusGenetrixf' 
ex. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows. 

Heaving between this world and worlds be- 
yond, 
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 

Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 

Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish 

sleep, [weep. 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling 

CXI. 
The night was as before: he was undress'd, 

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress 
Completely sans culotte, and without vest; i 

In short, he hardly could be clothed withj 
But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, [less:| 

He sate, with feelings awkward to express \ 
(By those who have not had such visitations),! 
Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vainhe listen'd — Hush! what's that? 

I see — I see — Ah, no! — 'tis not — yet 'tis — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy paceofhis! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 

Or tip-toe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again — what is't? The wind? No, no, — this 
It is the sable Friar, as before, [time 



gate which eloquence slips 



Yet leave the 
through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: 
His eyes were open, and (as was before [door. 
Stated) his mouth. W^hat open'd next? — the 

cxvi. 
It open'd with a most infernal creak. 

Like that of hell. *^Lasciate ogni speranza 
Voi ch^ entrate!^'' The hinge seem'd to speak, 

Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza; 
Or — but all words upon such themes are weak; 

A single shade's sufficient to entrance a 
Hero — for what is substance to a spirit? 
Or how is't matter trembles to come near it? 
CXVII. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly — but as fly 

The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 
And then swung back; nor close — but stood 
awry, 

Half letting in long shadows on the light. 
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 

For he had two, both tolerably bright; 
And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood 
The sable friar, in his solemn hood. 

CXV I II. 
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 

The night before : but, being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking: 
His own internal ghost began to awaken [ing — 

Within him, and to quell his ct)i poral quak- 



With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme,[more:!^;,Se^«^---;ofjh«,^^^^^^^^ 
Or (as rhymes niiiy be in these days) much was wollst du init mich?" 



/^24. 



DON yUAN. 



7B3 



Hinting that soul and body, on the whole, 
Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

cxix. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath 

fierce; [treated; 

And he arose, advanced — the shade re- 

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but 

heated. 

Resolved to thrust the mystery <r«r/^ and/?Vr<r^, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated; 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone 
still. 

cxx. 
Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 

It touch'd no soul nor body, but the wall. 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery 
showers, 
Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall. 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers. 
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's 
identity!* 

cxxi. 

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes 
And rather variably for stony death : [glared. 



* " Shadows to-night 

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers." 

Mich. HI. 



I Yet one thing rather good the grave had 

spared — 
I The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath; 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair- 

hair'd; 
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy 

shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey 

cloud. 

CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder! 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust. 
Which beat as if there was a warm heart 
under. 

He found, as people on most trials must, 
That he had made at first a silly blunder. 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the w^all, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and 
blood: 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 
And they reveal'd — alas, that e'er they 
should! 

In full, voluptuous, but not o^ergrov^n bulk, 

The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-FulkeJ 



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